Quiet Poetry
by Felicity G. Silvers
Summary: Sometimes, the best gift to give someone is a second chance.
1. Prologue

Hello there! Let's have some sweetness, shall we?

To all my followers who (may) be freaking out about me abandoning If and Only If-not likely. This is just something for the between spaces, as updates there will slow down so I can have more time to edit. In turn, that leads to this sweet thing. I do hope you enjoy.

This story is not unlike how it feels when I fall in love. I do hope you stick around and enjoy.

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**Prologue**  
He opened his eyes slowly, head throbbing and still able to taste the remnants of honey and fire. He didn't know where he was—there was some thick plush… rug across the entire floor, and there were little squares of paper stuck helter-skelter all over the room. There were things on cabinets, gleaming and quiet and black, and he realized, slowly, he was on Midgard. He had seen things like this in Iron Man's Tower.

Loki pushed himself to sitting, entire body aching. It felt too fragile, as if he were a bird with its hollow bones. He stared at his hands, not seeing the ripple of energy across them and his face twisted into a self-deprecating smirk. Of _course_ they wouldn't just put him on Midgard with his magic and strength intact. Eir and Frigga (_mother_) were not stupid, even if they would intervene on his behalf.

He spied a small book, leather bound, and a smaller… pouch? (_wallet_, one of the vibrantly coloured squares of paper informed him) on top of it. He set the 'wallet' aside for the moment, next to a _cell phone_. _Planner_ another note said of the book and he peeled the note off, thoughtfully sticking and unsticking one finger on the adhesive as he opened the planner. There was a piece of parchment inside, a note from his mother who has saved him from darkness and gutting that he was going to be condemned to.

It smelled of lilies and indigo. Frigga's handwriting was neat and precise on the page; it looked not unlike Loki's own handwriting. His brows furrowed.

_Loki,_

_I love you. You are still my son; if not in blood, then in spirit. I wish only the best for you, and I am sorry I could not provide for you better, that I could not ease your pain. This is the only gift that I know to give you, veiled as it is in punishment. I hope you will understand one day._

_Forget us. Forget Asgard, forget the life you had before, my son. Unburdened from responsibility as second prince, removed from the shadow that you have stood in, find your own way and make your own path._

_Live, as you could not on Asgard._

Loki read the letter again, licking his lips. His fragile mortal heart thudded in his ears and he worried that it might burst in the sudden quiet silence of his head. He chuckled shakily after he reread the letter a third time. What was he supposed to do? This was what she decided would be best? He knew _nothing_.

He sat there, head resting on his knees, heart fluttering and head aching, for an hour, two. He did not cry or curse or bewail his fate. For the first time in years, his mind was blank.

Eventually, he unfolded and picked up the planner again. There were notes in it, explaining what it was, explaining the wallet and what it contained, explaining the phone. He flipped to the little marker that indicated day, and found a schedule written neatly. There was an address, time, _art modeling_. He picked the phone up, pressed the little round button beneath the black square and it lit up, cheerfully informing him it was 10:45 and January 3rd, 2012. He had an hour and fifteen minutes until it would match the time in his planner. He played with the phone, until he finally got the little square 'map' figured out, till he could see the little blue line route that will take fifteen minutes to walk to. He set the planner and phone down, picked the wallet up, and sorted through it.

Green paper—smaller note: _currency_—several plastic cards. He pulled out the one that had a picture of him (did he truly look like this, young and sardonic smile and no sign of what had transpired?), his I.D. He studied it: _Luke Friggson_, born May 1st 1989 (whatever time that indicated), green eyes, black hair, sex: M. It had an address (he presumed the one he was currently at), and, in one corner, his distinctive signature—large looping L with the other letters crouched in its swirls, keeping themselves hidden, no last name.

"Luke," he said, testing the name out. It was not the name he would have chosen.

He stayed there in the floor, checking the time on his phone occasionally, and let the silence fill him again. He read the letter from his mother again, rested his finger tips on the last line.

_Live_, he mouthed silently, tracing with one finger. He stood, taking his wallet and phone, shoved them with unsteady hands into his pockets, grabbed a jangle of silver keys that rested by the door and did not hesitate as he walked out into a world he did not know.


	2. Chapter 1 Steve's Tuesday

In what is quickly becoming an F.G. Silvers tradition when the opening chapter is a prologue, let's do a double feature tonight. Say hello to chapter 1! I do hope you enjoy :3

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**Chapter 1**  
Tuesdays.

Tuesdays are Steve's favourite day of the week since he moved out of Tony's tower and into his own apartment. Other people that he volunteered with at the local library and the soup kitchen are all about Friday and Saturday, but those days are quiet and maybe it's because Steve doesn't hold a job like they do, but they blend together.

In the morning (after his run) he goes to see Janelle. He was suspicious at first about that, seeing a therapist, but therapy is a long way from what it used to be and people are a lot more accepting than they used to be, too. Some Tuesdays he leaves feeling a little more down than up, but he's starting to really _accept_ that liking men is really alright. Plus, Janelle doesn't make a big to-do about him being Captain America, rarely brings it up except when he does—and he doesn't bring it up unless he has to.

There's lunch, but it's never anything special. It's what's after lunch, volunteering for the kids at the library, that is. He loves story time and putting on the puppet shows, and the kids are sweet. It's mostly pre-K kids right now, thanks to it being winter and school being in session, so it also means a lot of keeping people from eating glue and shoving paint splattered fingers up their noses. He can be feeling the crappiest in the world and seeing those kids' faces light up when they see him makes it all better.

The best part of Tuesday, though is that night at the bar. Steve can't get drunk but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy a bottle of chilled beer in hand and joking around with the guys. There's about seven of them, all together, and half of them are like Steve—still 'in the closet' (he spent days reading on the internet and trying to learn the language after they first invited him to their table). Even SHIELD doesn't know about this and Steve plans to keep it that way for as long as he can. It's his secret, has been his secret his entire life, and it's nice to have one night of the week where it doesn't have to be only _his_ secret.

Tuesdays are his favourite days.

XXXXXX

He's at the library, about to leave, and realizes that he nearly forgot to look for the book he wants to read. Natasha had recommended it to him a few weeks back, and he's always doing this, letting it slip his mind, but _this_ time Steve remembers. He even knows the call number, it's not like he needs to do anything besides walk to the shelf and get the book down.

Steve turns a corner and very nearly runs straight into someone else's back; he catches himself, and the someone—young man, exactly Steve's height, made up of thinness and smooth lines that Steve wants to set down on paper _immediately_—looks at him, brilliant green eyes startled.

"Sorry," Steve says, trying to drag his mind away from the way the light hits those sharp cheekbones.

"No need to apologize," the young man replies, looking down and away. Steve catches sight of the scrap of paper in one (elegant, long, delicate) hand.

"Do you need help?"

A flicker of a frown and those green eyes looking at him again. He can't decide if they're Dark Hooker's Green or Green Apatite; maybe he'll break out the oils and try and figure it out later.

"Yes, please. New to the country, and the library system here is… different."

The voice sounds so very familiar, but Steve is almost certain that he would remember meeting this person before. He takes the slip of paper, then walks in front, explaining how the numbering system of the Library of Congress works, tells him what he knows about a few of the sections (like N is for art, M for music, Ps for literature and language, and that's actually all he knows, but those are the important ones), then pulls the book down off the top shelf and turns to hand it to him. Steve is surprised again; he'd already forgotten that his nearly-trampled companion is the same height. Not even a flicker of a smile, face all seriousness, so Steve laughs it off and hands him the book.

"Thank you."

"No problem." Steve smiles at him, though it isn't returned, and glances at his watch. "Just ask if you need help, okay? I've got to run though."

He's three blocks away from the library when he realizes he forgot to get the book _he_ wants again.

XXXXXX

"Steve, you're _mooning,_ my friend."

The entire table looks down to where Steve is sitting, suddenly not staring into the distance and remembering those (definitely deep Chromium green) eyes. He blinks at them.

"What?"

"He _is_ mooning," Alec chimes in. "Dude."

"Spill," Tom adds.

Steve holds his hands up before the rest start drilling him for details.

"I am _not_ mooning," he says firmly.

Olek, traitorous Russian exchange student, leans on the table and grins like a cat. Steve meets his gaze firmly, but he can't help his face starting to get uncomfortably warm. Matt takes a sip of his own beer on Steve's other side.

"So what's his name?" Matt asks.

"Uh."

The entire table groans.

"Dude, you didn't even get his name? Did you get his number? Tell me you got his number." Alec is leaning towards him from the other side of the table, looking incredibly serious.

"Well."

More groans.

"Look, I'm _not_ mooning, and besides, he was just getting a book from the library. I'll probably never see him again." A few eye rolls. "Besides, Alec, who are _you_ to talk? Haven't you asked out that guy, Nick, yet?"

Alec goes scarlet and mutters into his beer. Attention safely diverted from himself, Steve leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his own beer.

"So what _did_ he look like?"

Steve glances over to Olek, who is also leaned back, watching the drama of people trying to give Alec advice unfold. He almost bleeds "Russian artist," with his crane-like thinness, thick head of chocolate curls that constantly get in the way, strong nose, and penchant for black turtle necks with a threadbare coat.

"I could draw him forever," Steve admits. "All long lines and sharp angles, eyes the perfect shade of green."

Olek nods, and they sip in silence a bit more.

"He sounds like the new art model I was telling you about a few weeks ago. I will have to bring him along sometime. He is like you, all clumsy with technology, but very smart."

"Hah. Well, thanks. I think."

Olek flashes Steve a brilliant smile, the same one he saw Olek give Alec before he started to try playing matchmaker between Alec and Nick.

"None of that," Steve warns.

"None of what?" with a probably patented innocent smile.

XXXXXX

By next Tuesday, there's nothing left but a fond memory, a few discarded sketches, and a mention in passing to Janelle.


	3. Chapter 2 Loki's Tuesday

Welcome back! Let's take a few steps back and return to that Tuesday again, shall we? (did anyone notice how I started this on a Tuesday? Anyone? no oh okay ._.)

Ordis I'm soooo sooooorry. Olek being a total dramatic flair wonderthing isn't until next chapter I totally misrememberd D: I'm sure you won't mind cause we got us some grumpy-gills Loki instead :3

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**Chapter 2**  
Luke does not have a favourite day of the week.

They all seem to blur together, at first, and by the time he feels like he has a handle on anything, well, it doesn't seem like it matters. The mortals—people—_creatures_ around him all seem fond of Friday, though he supposes his odd work schedule keeps him from truly understanding why they all hold the day—Freya's day—in such high regard. No, Luke does not have a favourite day of the week, does not have a favourite anything actually. He does, however, hate Thursdays, mostly on principle.

And don't even get him started on Wednesdays.

It's hardly a month before he moves, finds a smaller place farther away from the noise though it means that he has to learn the subway lines and schedules and add more to his plate of _not knowing_, but he will admit, privately of course, that he is glad that he navigated the stress that is moving without being able to snap his fingers and magic it all there. It means that he met Lethe (_don't_ get her started on her name, he made that mistake all of _once_), even if he did (apparently? He still is unclear on what exactly 'celiac' _means_) nearly kill her with the (rather burnt, but he had never baked before) cookies he brought over as a gift.

If, however, one insisted on him picking a day that he liked better than _all the others_, he would, grudgingly, probably with a number of glares that will make one inwardly cringe, say that Tuesday is not so bad of a day. He enjoys the class he models for that day, early in the morning, and the cappuccino that Olek invariably insists that Luke join him for afterwards—meaning that, for an half hour or so, he has the Russian artist to himself (and Luke does not _hate_ crowds and large groups, he just prefers _not to be in them_, thank you), and the conversation with Olek is never once dull. And in the afternoon, he usually (but not always) will have dinner with Lethe, who has been teaching him how to not 'burn down' his own kitchen, while they watch (and he would not admit this on pain of death) amusingly good Korean dramas together.

Tuesdays are an acceptable day.

XXXXXX

He's at the library, piece of paper in hand, and getting increasingly more irritated by the fact that he _still_ has not managed to figure out what the string of letters and numbers mean. All he would like is to get his book and leave, especially after seeing what had looked suspiciously like Captain Rogers in the children's section.

Luke is not afraid of Rogers, not at all, which is why he is _not_ allowing it to disrupt his day and why he _is_ going to figure out this atrocious numbering system and get his book, or by the Nine—

He nearly gets trampled.

Trampled, is perhaps, a bit strong of a word, but when he twists to see who nearly walked into him he does not care. Startled blue eyes are looking at him, flush of apology already staining pale skin, and _Loki_ wishes he actually had something besides his pathetically human form so he could reasonably knock out Steve. He stills his face and tries not to panic.

"Sorry." Steve does not recognize him.

"No need to apologize," he says, rather magnanimously if he says so himself, and looks away, because his eyes are still his most distinctive feature.

_Go away go away go—_

"Do you need help?"

He glances up again. Loki wants to tell him to jump over the nearby railing. Luke thinks that but accepts the help anyway because the call number will not unscramble itself.

"Yes, please. New to the country, and the library system here is… different." It's not _really_ a lie.

There's a flicker of almost-recognition that makes Loki tense, but then Steve takes the slip of paper from him and glances at it and he can breathe again. Loki-Luke follows, and while he cannot ease entirely back into his comfortable forgetting of the past, he can at least push it aside for a little while. Especially as Steve explains what exactly the numbers and letters mean (this Library of Congress perhaps is not _as_ stupid as Luke first thought). He files away _M_ for 'music,' and keeps his face still as Steve hands him the book.

"Thank you."

"No problem." Steve smiles at him warmly, then glances at his watch. "Just ask if you need help, okay? I've got to run though."

Luke-Loki waits until Steve is gone before leaning against the bookcase and letting out one long, unsteady breath, all-too-human heart thundering his his ears.

XXXXXX

"You met _Captain America_?!"

The nearly fan-girlish shriek is not the response that Loki-Luke is looking for.

"He nearly trampled me! I'd hardly call that meeting." Steve Rogers is a hero here, of _course_ Lethe would not understand that Loki could have _died_ or worse, _been recognized_.

"Still, you were nearly trampled by _Captain America_. Gods, was he dreamy? Is he as sweet as he always looks on the news? You have to tell me _everything_."

Luke crosses his arms and stares at her.

"I was _nearly trampled_," he repeats, hoping for more sympathy if he adds emphasis. While it will get nothing done, he admits that having a breakdown is an idea that he is not opposed to now that he is safely in Lethe's kitchen.

Lethe stills her face and tries to muster up sympathy for him. They stare at each other for a few moments.

"I am sorry you were nearly trampled," Lethe offers.

"Thank you."

"He would have broken you in half."

"Yes. Well. Maybe. We are the same height."

Mistake. Lethe is suddenly eying him in a way that makes him incredibly uncomfortable. Like how Olek does occasionally when mentioning how Luke should join him on Tuesdays at the bar.

"Valhalla, you have absolutely no sympathy at all for my plight."

"Nope."

Luke rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Can we just… forget I mentioned it."

"No way. Details. Spill."

"I can cook on my own now, thank you. I don't _have_ to stay here."

Lethe raises an eyebrow and he tries not to point out that it's not _his_ fault that he has a tendency to burn things, he just gets distracted by all the _other_ things going on at the same time. Maybe he should order take out this evening.

"I understand that to you he's 'Captain America,' best hero of the Avengers—"

"He is!"

"—but all he does is remind me of the past, and I would really _prefer_ not to discuss it," Luke continues, very firmly. He expects Lethe to object, or to push, to pry about what happened to make Luke not like Captain America; he does not expect to see her eyes suddenly widen and sympathy on her face.

"The attack last June."

Luke goes cold, whole face going still and watching her. He _likes_ Lethe, he really does, she is clever, for a mortal, and he loves her art and her way with inks. He does not want to hurt her or leave, because he doubts that he will meet another (_friend_) like her. But Loki will, if he has to, because he can't let _anyone_ know (he doesn't want to see the hate on her features when she realizes).

"I'm sorry. You lost family, didn't you? I didn't, mine live out in St. Louis, but I lost a few friends. Reminders are painful, aren't they? If you want to talk about it, you know I'm right next door, right?"

"…yes." He swallows and looks down. "Everyone."

It is not true, not the way she thinks, they aren't dead, but they may as well be. Some nights it aches, some nights he can't help but think of Asgard's golden halls and the way Frigga (_mother_) smells of indigo on dye days, or the taste of Indun's apples. It has been one month, three weeks, and four days since he arrived on Midgard—Earth—and while he enjoys this life, enjoys the way these people all judge him on his merits, it does not make him miss the halls he does not belong to less.

"Luke," his name almost a sigh.

"I do not wish to speak of it. Look, can we just make dinner? You promised to show me how to make that spicy zucchini thing." He refuses to look up at her, makes a gesture towards the island where the ingredients are laid out.

"Sure."

"He _did_ smile at me."

"Luuuuuuke!"

He grins.

XXXXXX

By next Tuesday, he's just Luke again, comfortable in his new life once more.


	4. 3: That Tuesday

Welcome back! I'm going to say this about every chapter of Quiet, but this is my favourite chapter. (Spoilers: all the chapters are my favourite)(I love this story)

Thank you to everyone has read, followed, reviewed (especially reviewed), and favourited. You guys are lovely. :3 I do hope you continue to enjoy!

Thoughts on this chapter: eeeehehehehe

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**Chapter 3**  
"You should come with me tonight."

"No."

Luke feels Olek's eyes on him, but he refuses to look up. Instead, he takes another sip of coffee and studies the Kindle that had arrived in the mail that morning. Lethe has told him they are marvelous, able to hold many books without having physical copies. While Luke loves physical books, he also hates clutter and the fact is that he is beginning to run out of room for the ones that he somehow invariably brings home. He is certain he has _almost_ figured the device out (and if he hasn't, the manual is still sitting in a bag by his feet).

"Pleeeeeeease."

Luke resists the urge to sigh. Olek will only count it as victory if he does.

"Do not grovel, Olek. It is unbecoming."

"I would not have to grovel if you would just agree to come with me to the bar tonight, _da_? Tell me I do not make sense, Luke."

"You do not make sense, Olek." So _that's_ how one flips between pages. Interesting.

"Luke, you wound me." Luke glances up a little to see Olek placing a hand to his forehead, sagging down in the chair and otherwise attractomg attention from the other coffee shop patrons that Luke absolutely does not want. He narrows his eyes and glares at Olek, gritting his teeth a little.

"Stop that. You are causing a scene."

"Even Russia was never so dark as today, when once more you refuse to join me. Oh, Luke, I only wish to bring you joy, and how you push me away, time and again. I have never led you astray, and yet here, again, you push, break my heart, crush it. Light of my art, muse, please, I only wish to show you something beyond your home, help you make more friends, but alas, you are like ice, like the deepest darks of winter I thought I left in Mother Russia." Olek's voice is rising, getting louder, causing more people to look and Luke has to keep from using his new Kindle to brain the Russian. "Truly, I should be used to such by now, for it is Russian to suffer, to despair, but always I carry this flame of hope that _this_ time you will say 'yes'."

It is so very tempting. Luke takes a slow sip of coffee instead, focusing on how the warmth fills his stomach.

Olek laughs at him, leaning forward onto the table again, brown eyes sparkling. The dramatic despair vanishes in a heartbeat and he lowers his voice once more.

"I tease, my friend, I tease. If you refuse to go to the bar, would you at least be willing to meet one of my comrades? A date. Lunch date, so it is more innocent? I may jest, but you, my dear friend, need to get out more."

"I get out plenty," Luke says placidly. Olek raises an eyebrow at him. "With Lethe. We go to the art shop. And last weekend I went to see the orchestra with her."

"When is the last time you did something that did not involve Lethe?"

"I'm at coffee now with you."

"That is my point _exactly_. Two people! You've lived here three months now! You must branch out, experience _more_!" Olek lowers his voice when people start to look over again. "One lunch date. I've told you about him, Steve, he is very kind and quiet and exactly the sort of fellow that you would like. Dependable and probably be more than willing to always fit into the same routine you always stick to."

"The one who you always tease because he is terrible with technology."

"Exactly! You will be able to bond over how you are both from technology-less backwaters!" Olek grins at him, and while Luke knows it is Olek's most charming grin it does not make him frown any less in response. He _likes_ no one knowing who he is. He feels safer. (Not to mention he is getting _better_ with technology, for never having dealt with it before in his life.)

"_One_ date," he finally relents.

"It will become many dates!"

"One _lunch_ date," Luke emphasizes. "That's it. I reserve the right to hate him."

"You hate everyone, Luke, except myself and Lethe. You have excellent taste."

"I never said I don't hate you." A smirk curls Luke's lips at Olek's startled expression but then the Russian brushes it off with a laugh. He can't help but smile, always surprised that these mortals understand his humour better than any Aesir ever did.

XXXXXX

"So Olek wants me to go on a lunch date."

Janelle nods. Today her hair is pinned back with a golden hair clip; Steve rather likes it, all slender gold wires and abstract swirls.

"Do _you_ want to go on a lunch date?" she prods when Steve does not say anything else, just sits there with his hands folded uncomfortably.

"I don't know," he admits, almost relieved she prodded. That's her job, but he still appreciates it—here he can seem less sure. "I mean, it might be good. But it seems kind of exposed."

"Are you worried someone might recognize you?"

"Well. Yeah, that's always a worry, though most people don't. But I also don't know if I really want to possibly start something and the other person have this expectation that I be willing to… to not flaunt, but also be open? I'm not comfortable with that. Like, you know. Max did." He grimaces. That had been messier than he had really wanted; Max had been otherwise a fantastic guy. Janelle nods again.

"What do you think of Olek? Do you want to go on a lunch date with him? You two seem like good friends. Is that a worry too?"

Steve blinks at her. Olek? Why would he ever date Olek? Not that Olek is not a fun guy, but he certainly isn't someone Steve would want to _date_. Even if that is mean to think (Janelle is always telling him to be honest with himself anyway).

"Ooooooh. No." Steve laughs. "Not Olek. Some guy who models for one of Olek's life classes, he mentions him a lot. He sounds interesting, really."

"I see."

"What do you think?"

"Well," Janelle pauses, studying him. "If you _want_ to go on the date, there is no obligation for a second if you don't enjoy yourself. It might be a one-off thing. You don't have to view it as turning into a long-term situation, and it may never come up that you prefer not to be open. You could simply go and have a bit of fun." She smiles a little. "First dates don't mean that you're going steady, Steve."

Steve nods. It does make sense. He does like viewing everything as long term, as if _this_ date will be the one that leads to something longer and happier. It always feels like he doesn't have time, though if there's something he does have it's time. It's just everyone else who doesn't.

"Yeah, yeah you're right. I need to work on taking everything so seriously, right? I'll go and have a good time and if anything else happens, then it happens." He smiles at her, feeling a lot more sure about things. This is turning out to be a good Tuesday.

XXXXXX

He refuses to tell Olek until it's just the two of them walking home from the bar. The late winter night air is brisk, slush turning into thin ice as it dips slightly below freezing. Olek is talking about… something, fast and a little loose, accent thick and Steve is fairly certain only half of what he's saying is even in English at this point. He hears something about entitled money spoiled brats who can barely hold a pencil, who've never suffered a day in their lives, disgust thick.

"When would the lunch thing be?" Steve asks suddenly, tired of the half-Russian ranting. He could do with a change, someone outside of his usual circle.

"Hmm? Lunch thing? Oh, with Luke. Yes. Luke is darling. A muse among muses. He has _dusha, _like a Russian—so much grace and he must have had a hard life. You can see it, yes, in how he acts, how he is always full of _stradanye_ and eyes so hurt, but still gives of himself, still lives with a kindness and generosity that saints would envy. Luke is the greatest find that I have ever found, my friend, a gem among gems, and he is wasted upon that class of dullards." Olek smiles and wraps an arm around Steve's shoulders. "You will adore him, I think. He is all lines, some ink drawing swirled to life, and even if you do not enjoy the company—which I doubt, I doubt very much, you are both such odd characters, two colourful birds of paradise in a pack of pigeons—you will drink in his appearance, his lines, his ever-changing face and quiet smile and you will sigh and say 'ah, that Olek, he might be crazy and talk too much, but _this,_ he has the right of this.'"

They walk in silence, Olek's arm slung over Steve's shoulders.

"You're making me nervous," Steve says after a few minutes.

"Do not be. If he does not like you, he will be cuttingly cruel so that you leave or he leaves or everyone has a graceful reason to leave and no one must suffer through an awkward meal. Very gracious."

"That's… something." They stop at the corner. Olek pulls away and shoves his hands in his threadbare coat pockets. He looks different in the half-light of the street lamps, serious in a way that reminds Steve of ferrymen and the dead. Steve shivers a little, not because of the cold, and looks away from his friend's critical gaze.

"He is, as you say, something. Like unto a god, I think, divinity given flesh."

"You talk about him like you would like to have him to yourself."

Olek's smile is cold and distant and bitter.

"Would that I could, but it would be like Icarus and the sun." Then Olek smiles, whatever dark cloud lifted, claps Steve on the shoulder, and turns about. "Yes, time to go, I think. Too much vodka and too much time to think! Sleep well, my friend, and I shall avoid giving into Alec's challenges of drinking prowess next week!" He gives a half wave without turning around. Steve smiles again, relieved, and turns to go down his own street towards his own home then pauses.

"What time?" he calls.

"One, at the delightful noodle bar you found for us!"

XXXXXX

A noodle bar.

It is not that Luke does not enjoy noodles, not at all, but he has grown used to eating the way that Lethe eats. He is fairly certain that he has made it clear to Olek that he prefers to eat places that Lethe can also eat at, whether Lethe will join or not (because he likes having new places that he can take her for dinner sometimes, as apology for when he invariably scorches a pan or burns that evening's meal), but then trust Olek to ignore that in favour of a bastion of all things gluten.

He supposes that it will be alright if they have rice noodles.

Luke is running late, not by much, but _someone_ had decided to move where his clothes were stored and it had taken far too long to find them after the class he was modeling for ended. He is not very late but it is still irksome. He has promised Olek that he will give this 'Steve' a fair shot and that means being punctual. Or would mean, except here he is, _late_. The host smiles when he says the name for the reservation—Olek's, naturally, who really should stop meddling (though Luke will admit the thought of a lunch date with someone who knows nothing about him is something he did not think would ever happen without shape-shifting)—leads him back towards the table. The date—Steve, Luke reminds himself—is already there, back to them.

"My apologies, I've been running behind all day, work simply does not wish to let me away," he quickly tugs his coat back off (honestly, he hopes that it does not stay so wet and cold, he is sick to death of all these _layers_), drapes it over the chair, smooths a hand down his shirt to straighten it, reaches out to shake Steve's hand, not yet looking up (these stupid _wrinkles_ that will not get out) but flashing a faintly irritated smile, "I am Luke and I am—"

Stops dead, meeting wide blue eyes. His heart stops and he can't hear anything, anything at all.

There are 386,157 Steves in the United States.

422 are Steve Rogers.

"_Loki_?"

One is Captain America.


	5. 4: Steve Rogers

Welcome back! Thank you to everyone who reviewed, faved, and followed last chapter; you're reactions were all priceless and I am _not sorry at all_ so there. To make up for it, let's go ahead and ease on through the lunch date, shall we? Let's see what Steve does

(hint: be very Steve)

* * *

**Chapter 4**  
"_Loki_?"

And if Steve wasn't sure before, he is now, with the way those green eyes widen, flash through a million different emotions in the time it takes to blink, the way that mouth parts and something akin to _panic_ flashes across those sharp features. He doesn't even realize he's gripping Loki's hand tightly, and that Loki is trying to pull it away for a few breathless seconds, not until he glances down and sees how white Loki's knuckles are and the way every muscle in that slender wrist is taut.

That is the first sign something is different; he remembers how it felt when Loki punched him in Germany. The god might be faking it, but the panic and fear make Steve think that he's not, not at all, and that there is nothing Loki wants to do more than get away.

No, he corrects. The first sign is that Loki showed any fear at all.

Steve lets go of Loki's hand, who immediately snaps it back and away, rubbing it and looking away.

"Sit," Steve says. He crosses his arms.

Loki does.

That's the third sign.

Neither of them say anything. A waiter comes by with a tablet menu and water for Loki, asks if Loki wants anything else. Loki's got his mask on—that familiar smooth mask that doesn't betray anything—even if one hand is still rubbing at his wrist, orders a glass of the house merlot, and then silence settles thick on the table. They stare at each other.

"Rogers," Loki says, voice smooth as glass, hint of disdain curling his lips. He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, and looks like he is entirely comfortable, like this is an every day occurrence. But his pulse jumping at his throat gives him away, the way his eyes slip ever so slightly away from Steve's.

"What are you doing here?"

"Indulging curiosity."

Steve doesn't say anything in response to that. He _could_ call Loki on the fact that he was in no way expecting to meet Steve, that Loki clearly thought he was running late on a blind lunch date with someone who would have no idea who he is, but it won't serve much purpose.

"What are you _actually _doing here? In New York? 'Luke?'"

Loki does not respond.

The waiter returns, glancing between the two of them, and asks if they know what they want. There's the slightest flicker of irritation as Loki glances down at the tablet menu.

"I don't have anywhere to be. Order something if you're hungry."

Loki's eyes narrow; Steve knows he might not order out of pure spite and the tablet menu being closer to Steve than it is to the god won't encourage it either. Steve wants to keep him here a little longer; it's not like he can call SHIELD in (yes, hi guys, I found Loki, blind lunch date, who would have thought! By the way, I'm gay, ha ha yeah), but no need to let Loki know that. He reaches over and slides the menu closer to Loki, who watches him with a lidded gaze that looks a bit like a cat's. He doesn't actually expect Loki to take the menu.

But then Loki's eyes flick away and down, tugs the menu over and for a brief second there's a questioning furrow of brow and quick bite of lip and Steve is feeling the oddest tug of _deja vu_ at the expression, one he knows he's never seen on Loki's face but he _has_, he has to have—

Pthalo Emerald eyes and all sharp lines that Steve wants nothing more than to draw, dusty smell of books and an unsmiling face.

_Oh._

He actually _looks_ at Loki, who now seems intent on trying to figure out how the tablet menu works, this burning curiosity that can't be hidden by his mask. There's tension in his shoulders again, like he's forgotten to keep looking quite so calm and collected and the tiniest downward tilt of his lips. The fingers of one hand are drumming on his glass of water, one-two one-two one-two-three. Olek says he's an art model and small-time composer, says he is always fumbling with new technology and didn't even know what the subway _was_ when they first met. Steve can't help but remember how the other looked when he first walked up to the table, slightly irritated and chattering, smoothing a wrinkle out of his shirt as he draped his coat on his chair—how utterly _human_ he looked.

Loki smiles a tiny, tiny private smile, looking through the tablet menu and clearly having figured out how it works. Steve hesitates—that smile is honest, not like the sneers and smirks he remembers, and he can't help but remember Olek's words the night before.

Loki looks up at him, smile vanishing.

Steve could call SHIELD after this. He could walk away and pretend he had never met Loki at lunch. If he wants, he could probably drag Loki back to headquarters with him, if how Loki hadn't been able to pull his hand away earlier is any indication. It would be so easy.

"Steve Rogers," he says, holding his hand out to shake. Loki looks startled, confused, eyes his hand warily, then flicks back up to his face as if trying to see if Steve is joking. Steve smiles a little. "This is funny, but I think I've met you before. At the library."

"Luke Friggson." Loki's hand is all slender fingers and slightly rough brush of callouses. Those eyes are still watching Steve warily. "You nearly trampled me."

Steve laughs. His stomach is twisting itself in knots.

"Sorry about that. Olek's told me a lot about you."

"Nothing too damning, I hope?"

"No. He says you're an art model?"

"Part of the time. To pay the bills." There's a slight pause and Loki is studying him again, trying to pin something down. Steve keeps his face as neutral as he can. The waiter stops by once more, and they both order their food. Then silence.

"You look like you'd drive art students mad."

"Excuse me?" Lo—Luke blinks (if he's going to do this, he's going to go all the way). A little more of that mask is slipping away.

"You're all perfect lines I could draw forever." Steve smiles nervously but he doesn't look away.

Lo—Luke's mask drops entirely, too green eyes blinking and confused and the lightest wash of porcelain pink staining his high cheeks. Then a pleased curve of lips that make those (Pthalo Emerald mixed with the tiniest Lemon Yellow) eyes sparkle and Steve knows that whatever it is that has Loki here, now, doing whatever he's doing, it's alright. That Lo-uke is just trying to get by, and he's willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that Olek bullied him into this lunch as much as he bullied Steve.

And that's okay.

"You are quite the charmer, aren't you?" Luke says, voice low with amusement. "Thank you."

It's still a little awkward, but the tension is different now; it's 'getting to know you, getting to know me' and it's a dance that Steve's done a few times now, over lunch, over drinks. Luke is vibrant, quietly so, humour all bite, and while he keeps his voice quiet and clearly controlled his face is hardly the same, constantly flickering and moving, lines shifting and changing and no _wonder_ Olek is crazy about him.

Steve is not really surprised at himself when he asks if they can do this again sometime, lunch, or maybe dinner. He is a little surprised that his stomach is fluttering and he wants to hold his breath until Luke answers. Steve can see Luke churning through the reasons why, can see the distrust hovering in his eyes, waiting for this to be a prank, waiting for the trap to be sprung, see him weighing the risks versus the company and Steve only hopes that he has not been found wanting.

"There is a sushi bar a block from Julliard. Would Tuesday work for you? At 1?"

"Yes." Steve can barely restrain his grin.

Steve buys—he insists—they part ways, and he's most of the way home before he realizes he not only just had a lunch date with Loki, he just set himself up for a second one.

Well, it's a good thing he keeps SHIELD out of his private life, isn't it?


	6. 5: And yet

I know I posted yesterday. I don't care. Fuck it. I'm currently overwhelmed by feelings that take place after this story and I want to share those after stories with you but I can't till we finish Poetry so here I am.

Unable to resist

Posting another chapter.

Not.

Sorry.

(Thank you for all the lovely reviews, follows, and generally being wonderful that you people are. I am so pleased you are enjoying this as much as I enjoyed writing and enjoy sharing.)

* * *

**Chapter 5**  
He closes his front door quietly.

His fingers are chilled; they fumble at his coat buttons. He walks slowly, lets the coat slip out of his fingers and fall to the floor. The rest of his clothes follow, shed snake skin trail. Though he is the only one here, he locks the bathroom door behind himself before he starts the shower water.

It is hot. Scaldingly hot. Steam fills his lungs and he breathes it in and hopes he might suffocate from it.

Once he is in the shower, water slicing and leaving red streaks on his skin, he turns the light off, sits down, and wraps his arms around his knees.

One of _them_ knows who he is.

Or they think they do. He is… _different_. He is less bitter. He aches less, he desires to tear others down less, he hates less. He trusts more. People _smile_ at him now, see him and compliment him, do not mock his love of music and books (even seem to take it as a given that he will love books and ask him with interest what ones he _likes_); when he is compared, _if_ he is compared, it is to art and it is almost always a compliment. As Luke, he is, at last, _finally_, his own person.

And now it may all be undone. _Is_ undone.

He stays there curled around his knees and if his face is covered in wet, he can pretend it is the water washing over him and nothing more.

XXXXXX

"Hey, friend, Luke, I came as soon as I could! What is wrong, my friend? What has happened? Did lunch not go well? Please tell me it went well, I will simply crumble if Steve looks mopey at all when I see him next!"

Luke looks away from the window and _glares_ at Olek. Olek stops in his tracks, looking momentarily taken aback and suddenly a lot less sure about joining Loki at the table in their favourite coffee shop. Good. He should be wary. He taps one foot, keeping his arms crossed.

"Oh it went _splendidly_, he wants to have another, everything is simply _marvelous_, Olek, nothing could possibly go wrong, except for the bit where you _failed to mention_ he already knew me."

Olek frowns and sits down, waves away one of the waitresses before they come over to find out what he wants to drink. He is strangely serious for once, dark brown eyes meeting Luke's own green ones and he leans forward onto the table towards Luke.

"I was not aware you knew each other," he says; nothing else.

Luke sighs, relaxes into his chair and stops tapping his foot. He looks away from that serious gaze, how instead of unwanted apologies or immediate anger he is expected to know things he cannot, Olek is willing to listen, willing to try and understand; is willing, for however long, to drop his usual teasing and cheer. It is impossible to keep directing anger at the art student, even if he would very much like to.

"We do. He could make my life very miserable."

Olek says nothing.

"It is from some time ago. Things were different then. _I_ was different then. Not that he knows that." He takes a sip of his tea, trying to keep his hand steady. Ignores the feel of Olek's eyes on the faintest tremble and for a moment allows himself to remember what it is like to be a prince, who does not show emotion to those not worthy (even if Olek is a _friend_ because princes do not show emotion to anyone in public, it is unseemly). It's harder than he remembers it being.

"What happened at the lunch? If you wish to tell me."

"Nothing. We spoke. He decided to treat it as if he had not met me after I made it clear I would not answer his questions. He seems to have enjoyed himself; he asked if I would join him again. He paid for the check." (_He complimented me and meant it. He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. He acted as if he truly wished to know me for reasons purely personal, and when he asked about lunch I believed, for a moment, for long enough to accept the offer, that he does not mean to reveal me to his companions._) "I agreed to go."

"You did?" Luke glances sharply at Olek's response. There is concern there, and surprise (well of course, with how Luke has been glaring and angry, the surprise is expected). Concern for what Luke does not know but he almost believes it is for _him_. He sets his tea back down and drums a quick little rhythm against the mug.

"I did."

"You are very upset by this. I do not usually wish to question your choices, because you are your own person, but are you sure about this? You looked as if you might strip my skin from my bones when I walked in. Steve is a good man; he will not take offense to you changing your mind." Olek reaches out and touches his hand, lightest brush of fingertips across the back. "I did not mean to cause you such distress. I truly believed that you two would suit well together. Do not go because you feel some obligation to me or him. If it distresses you this much, do not go at all."

Luke licks his lips, staring into his tea. Olek is right. No one is forcing him to go. He doubts that Rogers will even be offended if he cancels. He can go back to pretending that he has not met Steve and things will be as they were, right? Foolish, he knows it is foolish. He knows Steve will remember him. And what if Steve decides that Luke is a threat after all, for whatever reason? He operates on a human scale in a human world and he has no idea how to forge papers and disappear elsewhere (given enough time he might, but he doubts there is time enough _now_). There is no _magic_ to depend on now, much as he misses it sometimes. Even if he moves to another city, if Steve tells SHIELD about him, he will be found, and so much more quickly than when he was Loki of Asgard. So what is the point of putting himself under more stress by engaging further with the spangled super hero?

And yet.

And yet he cannot forget the kindness in Steve's eyes, the stubborn determination that hovered there when he held his hand out and introduced himself. He cannot forget Steve's amused befuddlement when he received his mac and cheese and discovered that it was much fancier than he actually wanted. He cannot forget the way that Steve smiled, how he hardly slipped at all when he said "Luke" instead of "Loki" despite knowing the former name for less than a few minutes. It makes him curious, that someone who knew him _before_ is still willing to try and see him _after_ without having answers to any questions.

It's not like it matters anyway. _If_ Steve tells, _if_ Steve points him out (_if_ it _is_ a trap), whether Luke goes to lunch or not will make no difference. SHIELD can find him either way—Steve has his name, knows what he looks like, knows Olek, and (_if_) if Steve tells them it will be over.

He lets out a breath he was not aware he was holding and looks at Olek. The Russian is still studying him, patient as ever. He does not presume, does not push, just watches. He hasn't even ordered a drink yet.

"I do not think that I'm going because I feel obligated."

"Good." And (_finally_) that serious exterior breaks and it's just Olek again, Olek who laughs and jests, who is always smiling. "Good. That means it is something more, yes? Yes? He has made you curious?" Olek waggles his eyebrows and leans back in his chair. He waves at the waitress, giving her a wink when she rolls her eyes at the table that can't make up it's mind. "You are like a cat, all lithe and black and irresistibly curious."

"I have no idea why you are so _fascinated_ by the idea of me having a love life," Luke says sourly.

"It is good for you! Love is life's great adventure, the best one where you fall and fall and there are many _many_ volcanos you must avoid. And you have only _two_ friends. A third should be something more special, eh? Third time is the charm, as these silly Americans say. Hey, how does going to have dinner together sound, we can bring your forgetful river and have a grand old time! Celebrate your date, you tell us all the details! It will save you _time_, so you do not have to tell it twice!"

Luke tries to glare at Olek, but finds he cannot help but smile a little. After yesterday and this morning, he would not mind avoiding the kitchen. He will only burn whatever he tries to cook anyway, especially now, and it _would_ save him the time of retelling.

"You are very generous with your money, Olek. I would be honoured to join you for dinner. Allow me to see if Lethe is free."

Olek gapes. Luke dials Lethe's number before the Russian can object.


	7. 6: Surprise

Oh look. My favourite chapter. You know. My other favourite chapter.

No seriously Loki is amazing here and this is definitely one of my favourite chapters.

Really.

No other chapter is as much my favourite as this one. Except uh. All of them. Shit.

Do enjoy tonight's double feature!

* * *

**Chapter 6**  
They arrive at almost precisely the same time.

Which really should not surprise Luke, not at all, because Steve is absolutely the sort of stand-up citizen that would always try to be on-time to every event (is likely usually just a bit early), but it does, to some extent. He will admit he may have been hoping Steve would have changed his mind and not bothered coming, or that it really is a trap, because then Luke could finally (finally) let the tension ease of his shoulders—the expected is always so much _easier_ to deal with.

Luke is more surprised that he has managed to show up on time himself (Lethe had been no solace or sanctuary, and Olek knew about the lunch (date) thing, so Olek refused to join him and Lethe swore to beat him if he did not go have lunch with Steve ("It's _Captain America_ how are you having second thoughts?!"), so he went). It is reconnaissance for Lethe, he tells himself, it is because he owes Olek for being so generous, it is because Steve bought lunch last time and Luke does not wish to remain in his debt.

(It is because he is _curious_ to see if Steve will surprise him again)

XXXXXX

They are sitting in a corner booth (because Luke loves to sit in corners, to be able to see the rest of the room and know exactly where people are (and he might be more boxed in, but that is okay, because he feels _safer_ here)) and Steve is sitting next to him in the u-shaped booth, pouring over the list of rolls. His brows furrow ever so slightly as he reads and ponders and Luke finds that he quite likes the look of casual concentration.

"The eel roll is very good," Luke suggests and Steve glances up at him, ever so briefly, then goes back to the list and adds a little _1_ next to the eel roll (this surprises Loki, who has never had anyone (not even Thor) get something because he says it is good).

XXXXXX

They get drinks while they wait on the rolls—plum wine and Kirin. Luke has never had Kirin beer, and he tells Steve as much, idly (and at some point, he is not sure when, but it must not have been that long ago, he stopped scanning every person in the building to see if they are SHIELD and instead started to people watch), licking one finger and running it around the rim of his wine glass to see if it is crystal (it is not).

"Would you like to try it?" and Steve holds the bottle out to him.

He hesitates, then takes the bottle, fingers brushing against Steve's (and oh what artists hands are these).

XXXXXX

They talk, drinking soup and eating rolls. Luke enjoys how Steve expresses, enjoys how he talks. He watches his face and watches how his eyes widen, how quick he is to smile (and how utterly honest that smile always is)(how can someone be so honest, how is he not bled dry from the truth spilled so freely?), how he nods, how he laughs. How his brow furrows (just a little, barely causing a wrinkle elsewhere) when he is confused or serious, how he shifts and crosses his arms and leans back when he is unsure.

(How he listens, entirely, with his whole self (it warms Luke, from the inside and out, in a way he is not sure he would ever be able to explain it to anyone, when he is so used to his words being disregarded), and Steve's listening is enough to make him regret ever wishing to take this realm (because he would never have listened with that intensity and seriousness and _that smile_ if Loki had won)).

XXXXXX

They leave (Luke manages to steal the check before Steve can reach for it), pausing to stand outside the front of the sushi bar. This time, Luke is the one who stops, hesitates, shifts on his feet (he is _not_ a boy of thirteen with his first crush, what _is this_), then:

"I have tickets to see Yevgeny Kutik Friday evening."

Steve blinks at him, a hint of a smile starting to tug at his lips.

"He's a violinist."

"Ah. I thought you might have sneezed for a moment, wasn't sure if I should say 'bless you.'" Steve is watching him (and _damn _him, he is going to make Luke ask, isn't he?).

"It is a common response. It starts at eight," he adds (because _asking_ will be _admitting_ he is _interested_).

"It sounds like you're going to have a nice time," Steve says agreeably.

Luke glares at him, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

(He is not a boy of thirteen with his first crush (and his heart is only beating fast because he is _worried_ about betrayal and not Steve saying 'no' to a question he hasn't even _asked_) and asking Steve does _not_ mean he is curious, just that he enjoys the company and he believes that Steve will enjoy the music as well, and _what else_ is he going to do with that spare ticket he was given _anyway_.)

Steve smiles, blue blue eyes twinkling like stars.

"Stop being an ass," Luke says irritably (and he is looking at the people a little to Steve's left coming out of the restaurant because they are dressed more plainly than anyone he has ever seen (not because those eyes sparkling are doing things to his insides)). "It's a suit and tie event, and I expect to meet you at the Lincoln Center at 7:30." He flicks his gaze ever so slightly to look at Steve, frowning. He licks his lips, then adds, a little belatedly (because he cannot tell what Steve is _thinking_ and it's infuriating and he is going absolutely _mad_ (and _how_ did he become even more curious?)), "Please."

"Sure," Steve says, still grinning, wide and charming and looking utterly bemused by Luke.

"I didn't gi—oh. Oh. Well then." Luke _is not_ blushing, not at all, his cheeks have not flared with sudden warmth that he _knows_ (and hates) will stain them porcelain pink. "Very good." He slides his hands out of his coat and smooths down the already wrinkle-free front, examines his (perfectly trimmed) nails, and nods once, sharply, before he looks at Steve again. (_Are you sure?_ he wants to ask (because other than Lethe he must always coerce people to join him for music and this is _bizarre_) but he doesn't, mustn't, it's right on tip on his tongue—

"I'll see you, then." And Steve leans forward and kisses him on the cheek, then turns around and walks off, whistling a bit. Luke stands there, gaping after him.

(Surprise.)


	8. 7: Change

EXISTENTIAL CRISES FOR EVERYONE. Also double post tonight; stick about. We're gonna see another date.

* * *

**Chapter 7**  
The first thing Steve does after the date is go to the library. It lets him distract himself, for a while, from the warm glow (which he is finding more and more questionable) in his chest and the look of utter confusion on Luke's face from lunch. For a while, he can simply play with the children and ignore the text from Olek asking how it went.

He is suddenly intensely grateful he rescheduled his appointment with Janelle for later in the day.

As soon as the door to Janelle's office shuts he collapses into one of the chairs, let's himself relax and drop the facade of cheer. Here, in the safety of her office, he can let the mask of supersoldier go for a while (and that alone is what brought him back after the first session).

"What do you want to talk about?" Steve asks her, before she can ask him.

She smiles.

"Whatever you do. You look like you have a lot on your mind; that, I think might be worth talking about, if you want. Otherwise we can go back to talking about how you feel about your teammates and why you don't want to live with them, like we did last week."

Steve sits there, rubs a hand through his hair, and debates. He is surprised to find he actually isn't bothered by wanting to live by himself this week, actually isn't feeling resentful at the mere memory of every time Tony looks at him like a kicked puppy when Steve tells him once again "No, Tony, I'm fine living alone, thank you." In fact, how he feels about his teammates is the furthest thing from his mind right now, because he _actually kissed Loki on the cheek_.

He actually managed to forget, for an hour, that Luke is actually Loki, that Luke had killed a _number_ of people, tried to lead an invasion, and even if Luke is trying to forge his own way and muddle through everything, Steve had _forgotten_ that Luke is still the one who did those, that Luke is Loki, and Loki—Loki hurt a lot of people, and Loki still hasn't given Steve any answers.

And Steve hasn't even thought to ask.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back and groans.

"It's Luke."

"The young man Olek set you up with."

"Yeah."

Janelle waits for him to go on, if he will, as patient as ever.

"Olek's right, you know. He's really right. He's incredible to look at and I could probably talk to him all day. He's fascinating to watch, and his humour is all dark edges, and I like him, I really do. But, see, I used to know him. From a long time ago. Well. Not that long. That's not the point. The point is, I used to know him, and he was a really different person then. Really different.

"He was cruel. Cruel and he twisted people against each other as easy as you please, and used them without regard. And he hurt a lot of people. A lot. He ended up going back with his family, moved, dropped off the map, whatever you want to call it, and I hadn't seen him or heard about him in a while. I recognized him as soon as he walked in and said hello at lunch for the first date. I ended up eating with him and asking him for a second, and now we're going to see some violinist on Friday and it's _not right_ that it's so easy to forget what he's done and the people he hurt."

He pauses to take in a deep and steadying breath, feeling far more raw than he wants. He has crossed his arms somewhere in all of this, hunched in a little.

"You recognized him when you first had lunch, right?"

Steve nods.

"Why did you decide to go forward with it?"

"I… I don't know."

"Well, what did you think at the time?"

"I thought he looked… well. Human." It sounds weird so he charges on. "You know. Not like he was trying to manipulate me. He was honestly off-guard, uncomfortable; he seemed like he wanted nothing more to leave, but he didn't act like I thought he would. I mean, he didn't answer any of my questions, but he actually _sat down_ when I asked him to. He never would have done that before. And when he was looking at the menu, he got this little smile when he figured out how it worked—it was one of those tablet ones that some places have—and he just looked. He just looked so _normal_."

Janelle nods as if he has explained the meaning of existence.

He looks at her hopefully, but she never tells him what she thinks until he's gotten everything out. Let's him work his own way through, and prods him when he needs it.

"I thought he might be trying to change."

"Do you not now that you've eaten with him again?"

"Well, I do. That he's trying to change. I think. I just. I'm bothered, he hurt a lot of people, and when I spend time with him I just _forget_ that."

"Let's put aside you forgetting that he's hurt others for a few minutes. _Why_ do you think he's trying to change? You seem to have decided that pretty quickly."

Steve blinks at her, uncrosses his arms, and then crosses them again. He shifts in his chair, and looks around the room, then finally back at her. He starts to worry his lip.

"He looked different. Less… I don't know." Janelle raises an eyebrow, because he isn't meant to say 'I don't know.' "Less pained. He looked really angry and brittle all the time the last time I dealt with him. He had a mask on most the time, but it was there, in his eyes, in his smiles—they weren't honest, the smiles. It slipped; I remember when his brother showed up, the mask slipped entirely. He looked so hopeful and lost and angry all at once, like he hadn't expected anyone to come after him and he just wanted to hurt people the way he hurt.

"That's what I remember. But at the restaurant, he didn't. He still could pull that mask out of nowhere, but it slipped more easily. He looked less… hurt. He actually smiled." Steve finds himself smiling at the memory of that small, triumphant curve of lips and makes himself stop. "He looks younger, other than that whole sudden terror when he realized who I was."

"So you decided to play along with him and pretend that you were really meeting for the first time."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He frowns at her and she smiles back, serene as Mother Mary.

"I. I." He pauses again before he says 'I don't know.'. "I _want_ him to change. I want people to be willing to move on, I want them to be able to have a second chance. Everyone deserves that, I mean, all the other Avengers are basically formed of nothing _but_ second chances. If someone really _wants_ to move on, to try and become better, then they should have that option, you know? He might have been a total… total… well, pardon the language, but total bastard before, but he's deserves the chance."

He stops. It's quiet other than the ticking of her clock on the wall.

"If you think that, then I don't think it's so much of a problem you put aside that he's done bad things in the past." Janelle holds up a hand before he can speak. "I am not saying you should forget. I'm not saying he shouldn't be held accountable in some way for that, and maybe he has been and you don't know. It doesn't sound as if you two really spoke after he left until now or that he's offering up the details. _But_. I also think you should be glad you can put that aside and enjoy who he is changing into. With how scared you say he was, and the fact he's still returning to talk to you, it might be you are going to do him far more good by continuing to not pressure him over it, might actually _facilitate_ the change that he's going through. Does that make sense?"

Steve nods. It does. It makes much more sense, and it makes him feel less bad about how he is constantly losing sight that Luke is Loki because how can he expect Luke to be, well, the Luke that he's seeing now if he's always being confronted with what he _was_?

Makes him feel less bad for how _attracted_ he is to the former-god-turned-art-model-slash-composer.

"Yeah. You're right. I mean, I want him to change, and he is, a bit. And I like who he is now. A lot. He's… he's pretty amazing, underneath that mask."

"Do you want to keep talking about him?"

"Yeah," because Steve can't help it, because Luke twists him up inside with guilt and want and _hope_.


	9. 8: I am here

double pooooost~~~~ I love you guys 3

Hand-holding: definitely a theme for these two. Also, that bit is literally one of my favourite images. I've got this mental picture of it, just so. You'll see. It's like cozy warmth to wrap in~

* * *

**Chapter 8**  
Steve hasn't been to a concert in ages, but at least it's classical. It means he can put on a nice evening suit and not feel like he's going to be totally out of place. He's pretty much avoided concerts so far, honestly; he doesn't have much an ear for music and the stuff nowadays is very different to what he's used to. He straightens his tie a little—deep navy blue and striped with thin silver lines—smooths it down and glances around. Luke hadn't really told him where they are meeting other than the Lincoln Center, so he hovers by the pool in Hearst plaza and hopes that they don't miss each other.

He tries not to stand out, even though it means Luke might not see him.

"You look like a fish out of water," a smooth voice says behind him.

Luke is standing there, hands in his pockets. He's wearing a deep green wool coat over his suit, an incredibly soft looking hounds-tooth scarf to complement. His hair, usually in some slight disarray when Steve sees him, is carefully slicked back and out of his face, tips just barely brushing his collar. Steve feels out of place in his suit, but Luke looks as if he were born to wear one with such casual grace that Steve's a little envious.

It's the closest to looking like Loki that Steve has seen.

Luke is watching his face, waiting, because Steve still hasn't said anything, so Steve makes himself smile. He had almost come to accept that it's okay to put the fact Luke and Loki are the same out of mind, but now it's impossible to ignore; he wonders if Luke planned that.

"Well, I don't usually do things like this. I'm pretty tone deaf."

"Oh?" Luke starts to walk and Steve falls in step next to him as they head to… whatever one of these buildings the concert is going to be in.

"Yeah. Didn't really go to concerts much before the war and after, well, there were other things to do. And nowadays, well, like I said. Tone deaf, can't carry a tune in a bucket." He laughs at himself, trying to relax. "You look like what tailors had in mind when they _invented_ the suit."

That gets a delicate curve of lips, a maddening smile that Steve knows he will never be able to capture properly on paper.

"Hardly. I wasn't around when they were invented." Luke glances down and smooths the front of the already smooth lamb's wool coat. "You cut quite the figure yourself."

Steve laughs. So that's why he is trying to get wrinkles out. He wonders if Luke realizes what he does when he's nervous. It's a marvelous little detail, a touch of something _normal_, and even if Luke looks like Loki did in Stuttgart it is a motion that is entirely and purely Luke's. As is the slightest curve of a smile, amused and honest and lacking cruelty.

"I didn't use to. I used to be a pretty tiny guy," he tells him, because Luke might not know the story.

Lick of lips and a quick slip of green eyes over his features before Luke's face is all smooth calm again. And _there_, a smile that grows wider and _there_, the glimmer of pleased surprise that Steve is letting him stay as Luke, not requiring him to call on knowledge that Loki would have. Treating him as someone he would rather be.

And maybe that's why it is so easy to forget and put aside that Luke is Loki and Loki is Luke.

XXXXXX

They don't talk during the concert but at some point Steve's hand and Luke's hand intertwine, and Steve isn't sure if he reached for Luke's or Luke reached for his.

All he knows is he likes the feel of it there, bones slender and elegant beneath the skin, pads of Luke's fingers calloused from playing some type of stringed instrument.

When he squeezes it a little between songs Luke's eyes leave the stage to meet his, mind clearly still chewing over the technique. They stare at each other for a few moments, Luke suddenly examining _him_ as intently as he was the music, making Steve want to squirm in his chair—so he smiles at Luke, soft and small and reassuring as he can possibly be.

Luke's eyes soften, warm (Pthalo Emerald and Yellow Ochre, Steve is _certain_ this time), breaking the gaze as the next song starts. Steve looks, too, because he likes the architecture of this hall and he likes watching the musicians (and the music is pretty alright too, from what he can tell) and he wants to be able to tell Luke some sort of an opinion when this is over.

Their hands shift and slide, until their fingers are laced and both of them sit there in the dark, leaned a little towards the other, gripping just tightly enough to remind _I am here_.

XXXXXX

Steve drives Luke home that evening.


	10. 9: What Changes?

I expect there's going to be a sudden rise in cases of spontaneous combustion after this chapter. Just.

Call it a hunch.

After how people reacted to last chapter.

Enjooooy~~

* * *

**Chapter 9**  
_I can't cook, though I'm trying to learn_. _That's why you can't come over for dinner._

It has been three weeks.

_Then you come over, I'll cook for you_.

Luke is nearly certain he's going mad.

_Noirs, I love noirs. They are fascinating. Have you seen any?_

Because he has to be (there's no other explanation) to still be going to eat with Steve, to look forward to when he next sees the blue-eyed artist-volunteer-motorcycle nut, to mentally be mapping (all the time) what notes Steve's voice hit most often (D-flat, F, A-flat, the D-flat major chord and Luke's personal favourite, the only one that keeps a hint of sadness to it)(though sometimes, when they meet after the library where Steve volunteers with children, it's all C-major, C-E-G uncomplicated happiness that infects Luke in a way he almost hates (but really loves)), to want to trace his fingers over the lines of Steve's hands, those broad hands that make Luke's slender ones look nearly effeminate (especially after Steve has been drawing with charcoal and they are vivid with the dust staining them).

_Not many, they came after the ice. You have a few? We can watch at your place; can you at least make popcorn?_

Because there is absolutely no logical reason that his stomach warms and twists like a satisfied cat when he sees Steve (it _must _be a mortal response because he has never felt such when he was a prince and a god), no logical reason that he finds himself counting time (one-two-three, one-two-three) until he sees him again, hears his voice again, gets a text from him again, no logical reason for this burning curiosity (love) to see what Steve will do next. Because there is no way this is real and no way he is not dreaming since no one is this stable or this interested or smiles for Luke in a way that makes blue blue blue eyes twinkle.

_You have paint in your hair. Green paint. It is a good colour on you._

And he _has_ to be going mad because he finds it is difficult to shut up about Steve, finds it is difficult not to instinctively turn and compare how _this_ moment with Lethe or _that_ moment with Olek compares to a similar moment with Steve (and there are not enough similar moments (and that only makes him want to spend more time with Steve, to experience _more _with him), he wants to change that).

_Yeah, the kids went a little wild today._

It feels like drowning and flying at the same moment.

_(and a kiss pressed to his lips, arm briefly curled around his waist, and he is too mortal because his heart is fluttering like a trapped bird and he can't stop smiling)_

XXXXXX

He walks into his apartment and freezes because something is _off_.

Someone has been here.

Someone has been in his apartment

(He never leaves the remote that way, it always goes on the arm of the couch, there's a smell in the air he doesn't recognize and Lethe never moves things when she uses the spare key he gave her if she needs to borrow something from the kitchen (because it's not like he's at all competent with the things she's convinced him to buy)).

_Someone has been here_.

He closes the door softly behind himself and takes a few cautious steps inside then stops. He listens but there's no noise (except maybe there _is_ and he's missing it because outside the sound of cars and people is drifting in through the windows he left open because it has been such a _nice _spring day).

This hurts in a way that he can't describe, hurts the way that (those plans no longer matter) _before_ did, a betrayal, because _someone has been here _and it was not Lethe.

The kitchen is untouched (or he thinks it is, he should have _cleaned_, because he just left the sifter and the mixing bowl out to soak in the sink and rice flour spilled on the counter).

His bedroom is untouched.

But the other room, the one he uses as a studio to compose and work in, the door is open (he never leaves it open), just a little, just a fraction, not quite settled back in the frame and the smell he can't place travels _here_ and his stomach _knots_—

There are two roses sitting on the piano.

One's petals are parchment yellow, the tips all dusky pinks; the other is all peach and glowing sunset reds. Both have woody stems, sharply thorned, and they are bound together with (velvet) forest green and (silk) deep blue ribbon. His hand is shaking as he picks them up—underneath there is a small little square of paper.

One of the thorns pierces his finger as he picks the paper up. It is a charcoal sketch of a wrought iron table and two chairs and he stares and stares (it is so _familiar_), trying to learn how to breath again, because this is Steve's artwork (he has not been _betrayed_ (darkness and poison and self-hate that he _could_ believe that so _easily_ hover in the back of his mind)) and Lethe must have let him in and shaking he sinks to the floor and _stares_ at the drawing, presses the roses to his face and breathes them in (so he doesn't cry because of the panic welled so fast and hard in his chest)(he cannot _breathe_).

The two combine slowly once the panic eases and he _realizes_ it is his (_their_) favourite cafe, out of the way, with a rooftop patio bursting with roses of parchment and peaches and sunset hues, _his _favourite corner to sit in pictured. He drops the roses and darts out the door, barely remembers to grab his keys—the cafe is not that far away.

Steve is waiting for him when he gets there, sketching some and staining his hands with charcoal, and there's already a pot of tea sitting on the table and those blue blue eyes sparkle when they spot Luke. Luke wants to yell at him, wants to be so _angry_, wants to let a little of the hurt out, that Steve invaded his space when he was not there.

And yet.

He just stands there, staring at Steve, not quite able to come up with the words, because that sparkle is also mirrored with concern, a _recognition_ that a boundary was crossed that should not have been, and the apology is already forming on Steve's lips as he goes to stand (and _no one _has ever _known _when Loki is upset without his words).

Luke sits down in his favourite chair at his favourite cafe across from his favourite person before Steve can apologize (because Loki has so much more to apologize for than Steve ever will) and pours himself a cup of tea (mint green) from the pot. Steve frowns a little, but it soon eases back into that easy sweet smile that makes Luke's heart glow, and that glow, he holds it as close as he can, as tightly as he can, because it makes the rest of the anger melt, makes the rest of the panic still bubbling in his chest ease—that smile is a light that banishes his shadows and fears and worries for a while and surrounds him in comfort.

He trusts (loves) that smile.

"So," Steve starts, running a hand through his hair the way he only does when he is nervous, leaning forward towards Luke, "I was wondering if you would want to make this somewhat official."

Luke still knows nearly nothing about mortal courting customs (and Steve is _not _courting him, they just enjoy each other's company). He takes a sip of his tea. He glances down and smooths out a wrinkle on his shirt with one hand.

"Official how?"

Steve is _not _courting him.

"Well, I don't know how they do things where you're from, but. I wanted to know if you would like to go out."

He frowns at Steve because they go out all the time, every week, every day nearly.

"I wasn't aware that you needed to invade my home in order to ask to go to dinner, Steve," he says (mentally hisses at himself for his petty, petty anger).

"I mean, steady. We used to call it going steady." Steve is watching his face carefully, blue eyes searching the way he searches things when he draws, trying to place the details and map them out. "Not married, just.. exclusive. Testing the waters more, telling people 'I'm taken' when they ask, you are mine and I am yours. Boyfriends."

It clicks in his head and he has to set the teacup down very abruptly, sharply, a little of the liquid sloshing over. He can't meet those blue blue eyes; he pulls his hands away and into his lap, runs one over the other, smooths wrinkles out of his pants, tries to _breathe_ and tries to make his heart stop stammering and tries to figure out if he's drowning or flying or both, like one of those fish they saw at the aquarium that leap out of the water. He tries to say something and he can't, just opens his mouth and then closes it again sharply and looks _everywhere _except at Steve.

"We don't have to," Steve says a little too quickly, leaning back in Loki's peripheral and Loki already knows that Steve is trying to keep from crossing his arms or running a hand through his hair.

There a million questions on the tip of his tongue, a million and one things he can say.

"Why?"

He glances up, slightly, towards Steve, but still doesn't meet his eyes, he absolutely can't right now. Because this is far too good, far beyond anything Luke would ever ask, and he still hasn't told Steve _anything_, not really, and yet. Steve looks a little startled at the question so Luke plows on.

"I mean. Why." (Eloquent.) "Why me. I hardly think that." (Silver-tongue.) "I mean, that is very nice and it's a bit of a question and I just don't get _why _you would want that. With me."

He's looking back down again, sits up straighter and smooths out wrinkles from the front of his shirt once more. Wrinkle-free material indeed, and he scowls a bit at it.

"Because I like you."

And there it is, hanging in the air, simple and stated as if it is fact, law, a command handed down from Odin himself. He can't help but look up at Steve now, Steve who is leaned forward again, arms resting on the table, watching him, flicker of concern and something not unlike fear. _Fear_. Waiting. Waiting on _Luke's _answer because Luke hasn't said 'yes' or 'no.' It's absurd.

(No one told him being mortal would be so _difficult_.)

"Supposing," he says very cautiously, "I say 'yes.' What changes?"

His stomach twists at Steve's (wide, hopeful) smile and it's absurd to think Luke would ever say _no _to anything that he asks.

"Well, not much, I imagine. You have to tell me when your birthday is, though, instead of dancing around it."

"Is there… anything else you would want to know?" (And he's baring his throat, he doesn't _want_ to be asked, doesn't want to say anything about 'why' he's in New York and what's going on and _before_, but this is something else and too good and Steve _is_ courting him, and if he's going to lose him he'd rather it be _now _than later)

"No. Anything else you want or need to tell me, you can in your own time." Steve still looks so _hopeful_. "Even if it is about five minutes after the rest of us."

"I was late _once_, that hardly means I'm always late." He tries to scowl at Steve, but a tiny smile still touches his eyes. He takes an even sip of his tea. "May 1st."

He might melt under the smile that blossoms on Steve's face, the joy and triumph and sheer _happiness_ of it. It catches and he smiles back as Steve grabs the hand not holding the teacup, as Steve's fingers intertwine with his; he can't help but squeeze tightly (scared to let go), terrified that Steve will vanish and that he will wake from a dream turned nightmare in the early quiet morning of Asgard. Steve squeezes back, reassuringly, and presses a kiss to his knuckles, still grinning as goofy as a school boy, still unquestioning and patient and _perfect_.


	11. 10: Steve's Favourite Day

Birthday birthday happy birthday yay. Enjoy~

* * *

**Chapter 10**  
Steve's favourite day of the week is the one he gets to see Luke on.

Which is admittedly incredibly sappy, and means that he usually has _multiple_ favourite days of the week, but it does not make it any less true. He tries, very hard, to keep in mind that this may not last, that them dating officially does not mean 'forever,' because it is something he has always needed to work on. It's easy to get lost in the rush of dating someone, of loving all their good parts; this is not difficult, in that initial getting-to-know stage (and it really is the getting-to-know stage with Luke when he firsts asks). The hard part is after, so Steve reminds himself (daily, hourly, every time he looks and finds Luke's (Dark Hooker's Green) eyes looking back at him) that this does not mean forever and it will be okay if it _isn't_ forever because it's wonderful _right now_ and Luke is clearly adjusting and getting more comfortable. So even if this goes poorly, he will have _helped_ and that's pretty much enough to make Steve happy.

(And sometimes he wonders if maybe this _will_ be the One, though he shouldn't, because it's been weeks, nearly two months, Luke's birthday is coming up in a week and he has _plans_ though Luke has made no mention of doing anything, because he still mostly has little problem with Luke and can still love being with him. Because when he calls Luke out on things, Luke actually _listens_ and tries to understand and actively takes it in and uses it in the future (like when Luke said something so casually classist you could have knocked Steve over with a feather, and it _makes sense_ that Luke would be, he grew up _a prince_, but when Steve ended up getting so angry and impassioned (and he really shouldn't have let it get under his skin so much) Luke just _listened_ and tried to understand and is _still_ struggling to grasp, but that's the thing he, he _does_ try, desperately hard). Because Luke will admit his faults (like how he can't cook, or how he's terrible at drawing, or how he gets so irrationally angry and upset sometimes). Because Luke _understands_ Steve's desire to not announce this from the rooftops, the desire to keep it private and mostly between them and a few close friends. And all those things, all those little things, they make it so he doesn't end up disappointed in Luke, ever, and it's twisting him up inside, that he hasn't actually dated someone who has tried so much or been quite so _suited._ He can't help but wonder in the quiet part of his mind if maybe Luke is the One even though he shouldn't.)

So he enjoys the now, knowing it might not last.

XXXXXX

Luke frowning ever so slightly and ink smudged on his nose while he leans over sheets of empty staffs waiting to be filled with notes, fingers playing through complicated snippets of music on his piano before he jots down what he actually likes.

The way all those long, lean lines seem to collapse on themselves when they watch a movie on the couch, blanket tossed over, Luke's head nestled in the crook of Steve's neck and hair tickling his throat.

How Luke's mouth is so pleasantly cold and tastes of green tea and mint, impulsive kiss after Luke's first bite of ice cream because the look of surprise and utter delight is irresistible.

Luke's fingertips as they run over his hands (again), and how absolutely intently Luke follows the lines, as if he could map out everything there is to know by memorizing Steve's hands.

Luke with a maddening cat smile, glancing at him when Steve huffs in frustration because yet again he's got the lines wrong for Luke's face while he doodles on the corner of a napkin in a restaurant.

The narrow of eyes when they start to debate—never argue—over something and Luke _knows_ he's right and Steve's wrong and the tiny huff of irritation that Steve can't see that.

How Luke looks at him, entire face puzzled, as if he doesn't understand how all this has happened whenever Luke doesn't think Steve can see.

Luke's breath when he _does_ doze off against Steve's shoulder in the car when they've been out far too late again, soft and quiet and even, face slack and utterly trusting.

XXXXXX

Steve has cleared his entire schedule for today, and a bit of talking with both Lethe and Olek has revealed that Luke is going to hole himself in his apartment as if it _isn't_ his birthday. This suits him just fine, as it means Luke has nowhere to be and can be more easily taken out and about.

In the backseat of the car there's an honest-to-goodness picnic basket and the blanket that they usually curl under while they watch movies. He's got so much food in that basket that he had worried he might not be able to close it, including a lemon meringue pie—Luke's favourite, who can't seem to get enough of the slightly sour-sweet confection and who adores the white spongy peaks on top best.

(See, there are a lot of things he _could_ get Luke, plenty, but the point of it is Luke doesn't lack for the material. Luke generally gets by enough that he doesn't want for things he might need, and he generally has little interest in objects anyway. But _experiences_ are something he lacks, because Luke used to be Loki, Loki who lived in a golden city as a prince his entire life and who still fumbles in his lack of knowledge of how things go that others take for granted, and Steve is basically certain that Loki (and thus Luke) has never been on a picnic. It's something he knows the other will like, because Luke loves the outdoors and is generally interested whenever they go to the botanical garden or the park, plus if it fails, well, he's got food—and Luke adores food. This is food Steve's mom would cook and it's food you can't get at a restaurant, not properly anyway, so even if one experience isn't enough, he's got a second (and in his pocket he's got a gift, a little thing, and he only hopes Luke doesn't freak out about that, because Luke can get so very nervous and anxious over things that Steve thinks are pretty standard dating protocol)).

Luke answers the door in a robe with a cup of coffee, hair still in disarray, and gets that little frown on his face that he gets whenever he is Not Amused. Steve just grins at him.

"You should get dressed. I need to take you somewhere."

Luke scowls at him and Steve resists the urge to push a stray strand of hair behind Luke's ear. Instead, he makes his way inside and to the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Luke follows after him, scowl deepening.

"Come on, get dressed." He takes a sip of the coffee, debating adding some milk and sugar. "We'll have fun, I promise. I'm not taking you in public." And it's a bit dirty but he gives Luke his nearly patented Puppy Dog eyes. He can _see_ the resolve beginning to totter so he adds, "Please?"

Luke glares at him more, just to make sure Steve is entirely aware that he does Not Approve, but the coffee mug ends up on the counter and Luke's bedroom door slams behind him.

This is going to be a fantastic day.

XXXXXX

Luke sulks the entire ride until they're out of the city and the suburbs. Then he straightens a little, peering out the window instead of examining his nails or fiddling with the radio, looking curious. Steve keeps humming to the radio like he hasn't noticed, but he turns the air off and rolls the windows down—this is the moment he _knows_ that Luke is going to love the picnic because he doesn't even get a look of irritation. Luke hates being in the car with the windows down, hates how it musses his hair and his clothes, but instead he's just half-leaning out and pushing his hair out of his face while he watches the countryside roll by.

He takes one hand off the wheel and slips it into Luke's; Luke doesn't even glance over, just twines their fingers together, and the rest of the ride is silent but for the radio and sound of air whipping past.

XXXXXX

Steve picked this spot long before he ever started to date Luke.

It's one of the only places that's still the same as it was—a hill with a giant tree that twists and sprawls at the top. And maybe it's not _exactly_ the same—the tree has certainly gotten a lot bigger—but otherwise it's untouched. There's still a farm about a mile away, still a stone wall that you can see in the distance along the edge of their property, still silence and just one lone gravel road without a real name. His mother brought him here a few times when he was growing up. Steve put off coming back for nearly a year after he woke up because he didn't want to see this place changed too.

He doesn't tell Luke any of this as they walk up the hill, Luke carrying the blanket and Steve the picnic basket, but he can tell that Luke knows this isn't the sort of place just stumbled upon. It's too out of the way and the roads are all unmarked country roads that twine on themselves, determined to get a person lost unless they belong, and Steve didn't take a single wrong turn anywhere. He knows this place, visits it once a month or so no matter the weather. It's good to have something stable in life.

Luke spreads the blanket out and Steve starts to unpack the basket. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, zucchini boats, an endless parade of simple food that is no less good for it's simplicity, and not anything like what they usually eat when they go out. Not like what Steve usually cooks—he likes to spoil Luke with food, because Luke is fascinated by the complicated dishes he can put together and way more appreciative than the team. Luke is watching curiously while Steve sorts, lips pursed just slightly. Steve kisses those pouty lips when he hands him a plate and it gets him a flicker of a smile.

"It's called a picnic. I thought you'd like it," Steve says, getting his own plate, answering the unspoken question.

They don't talk as they eat, but they sit close together, the tree big enough they can both lean against it. Luke steals a forkful of homemade mac n cheese off Steve's plate, smirking slightly, and Steve laughs, stealing one of Luke's stuffed mushrooms in return. Luke looks mock aghast, then it's hardly a few minutes later and it's nearly full-scale war.

"Hey!" Steve says, holding his plate away, Luke laughing half in his lap. He sets the plate down and then pulls him the rest of the way, so Luke's back rests to his chest, wraps his arms around the middle and buries his face in his favourite curve—the gentle one joining neck to shoulder. Relishes the feel of Luke relaxing into him, feeling the tension drain, because Luke is usually drawn as tight as one of his violin strings. He hums appreciatively.

"You may feed me," Luke says imperiously with a haughty tilt of his chin.

Steve chuckles, but he does it anyway, not minding this. He loves that Luke trusts him enough for this—because it is trust, so much of this is Luke trusting him and him trusting Luke—and also loves the way Luke will occasionally nip at his fingers, never hard, but enough to tease. Luke doesn't say anything but eventually Steve stops, knowing Luke doesn't want anything else except to be like this, to look at the land that sprawls away from them and be held (it's in the way he leans his head back to rest against Steve's chest and the soft sigh that escapes his lips, the way his arms rest comfortably on the Steve's wrapped about his middle).

"This is acceptable."

Steve smiles into the curve of Luke's neck and squeezes him a little tighter. He moves one hand and digs in his pocket, pulls out the smallish box, wrapped in green. Holds it in front of Luke on the flat of his palm.

"Happy birthday," Steve says as Luke takes it carefully with those long, long fingers, examines it. "It won't bite."

Luke snorts but he pulls the wrapping away delicately, works tape away from paper and manages to avoid tearing it much. He opens the box and blinks at the bracelet inside, a cord of dark-nearly-black leather. Simple, worn. Worn a lot. A long time ago, it'd been Bucky's; he thinks his long-gone friend would appreciate it getting some use again. Luke doesn't ask whose it was or what it means—but Steve can tell Luke knows that this is something precious, something important. Steve isn't one for idle gifts (and Luke seems to recognize this, seems to recognize that Steve will never so casually give gifts like Luke gives gifts and never once seems to resent it).

When Luke twists around and catches him in a kiss, eyes lit up like it's Christmas and face betraying every drop of joy that Steve has caused, Steve can't help how his heart twists on itself with warmth.

(And in the quiet part of his mind, even though he shouldn't, he wonders if Luke might the One.)


	12. 11: Loki

Doop doop. Let's have a little tiny, drop of a taste of all the things we have to do after this story finishes. Tiny tiny drop, I have so many feelings about these two and their relationship still, and there's a _lot_ more I have to say on them-on their dynamic, which isn't healthy, Loki's past, Steve's past, how they change, how they change each other, how they change in their feelings for each other, and just getting them somewhere good. I mean, let's be honest, so far this story has been all fluff and rainbows, and it'll go back, but, just.

I needed at least one chapter as herald to how absolutely _messy_ things are post-Poetry, because they are, they are, they fight and break and fight and shift and adjust how they work.

So this is uh really unwieldy foreshadowing since I just told you it's foreshadowing. I just couldn't write an entire story without some hints of dark seeping through.

* * *

**Chapter 11**  
It's little things that worry Steve.

Luke has been talking a little faster and a little more than usual lately and always about things that don't actually matter. Always about topics he's never shown an interest in before. He tries to smooth out wrinkles all the time again, like when he and Steve first started this thing nearly four months ago. He stares at Steve a little too long with his frown that means "I am worried." And when Steve asks "What's wrong" he always answers "Nothing!" with a flick of his least honest smile.

Steve tries very hard not to push. Luke has bad days sometimes, it's bound to happen to anyone, and Luke never pries when Steve is having a bad day—they always let the other talk about it when he wants to. It's just difficult because he hates to see Luke like this, hates how no one else seems to notice that Luke is upset because it is so obvious in all his little movements, his little actions. And so very obvious in his words. Barbed vicious things that Steve _knows_ he's trying to get a reaction with—primarily from Steve—and he has had reason to bite his tongue more than once.

Luke always apologizes, usually minutes later, clearly distressed.

It's not right, or good, or any number of things that Steve wants, but he waits on Luke to tell him what's wrong.

XXXXXX

Steve is exhausted and sore by the time he gets back to his apartment. Someone (Doom) had decided that today would be a great day to try and attack the city, and while the city is actually still in pretty alright condition (especially compared to last June), Steve has been run ragged back and forth. He's looking forward to home, looking forward to taking a shower and collapsing into bed, because superserum or not he's _tired_.

The light to his apartment is on—_Loki_.

(Which is odd, he usually thinks of him as Luke, never slips anymore, but he did just have to keep New York from getting destroyed, which naturally brings up comparisons to how it looked after the Chitauri, which has him thinking of Loki's attack. Most days he never even remembers that Luke is Loki, not anymore, but he supposes he can't really avoid it today. He only wishes Lo-uke wasn't here while the memories are fresh.)

He had given Lo-uke a spare key nearly a month ago, because sometimes Steve runs late from things and he didn't like the thought of Luke waiting for him to get back.

He hesitates at his door before he goes inside.

Loki is sitting on the couch, television off. Luke is straightening and twisting to look at Steve. Loki is staring at him, eyes unreadable. Luke is smoothing down wrinkles.

Steve closes the door and sits on the couch, plenty of space between them, and notices the cut on Luke's head, how he's covered in dust. He sees a flash of something across Luke's face that tells him the choice is noticed. He doesn't have time to regret it before _Loki_ smirks with a self-deprecating and knife-like edge.

"Something wrong, Rogers? Perhaps I should go."

Steve doesn't say anything, leans to rest his arms on his knees.

"After all, I'm sure you've much to sort through. Perhaps contemplate if you have a burning desire to date someone else?"

He watches Loki. Loki _is_ Luke, and there's nothing he can do to avoid it, not now; Loki is being still but one hand is still twitching slightly, an effort of will to keep from smoothing out a wrinkle in his pants. There's a mask in place, bitter and knowing, but his eyes are a swirl of emotions. Hurt, pain, regret. Fear. It's so _easy_ to pick out what's going on behind that mask now; he wonders how he didn't see it before.

"Cat got your tongue, _Captain_?"

Steve is tired. He knows what is going on; it's what's been going on most of this month—Loki is trying to bait him, Loki is trying to rub him the wrong way. He knows he has something eating at him, but all Steve feels is tired, too tired to try to tease it out.

He wants to sit and watch a movie and forget that he spent all day trying to save people. He wants to put aside memories of New York just after the Chitauri. He wants to rest.

Mostly, he wants to hold his boyfriend, be reassured he is not hurt (because even with bad memories crawling through his mind, he had worried. Loki is so _frail_ now.)

"Loki," he says and watches one hand immediately clench, unclench, and smooth out wrinkles. "It's not very pleasant, is it?"

Loki frowns at him tightly, then looks away. Steve licks his thumb, then reaches up and gently rubs away a trickle of dried blood that Loki missed, earning him a glare but there's still other emotions and unlike the relaxed pose usually taken when nervous, he's tight. Tight as a violin string, tighter, nearly ready to snap.

"Where were you?" Steve prods gently.

"What does it matter?"

Steve shrugs and waits out the silence. He watches Loki's face, watches how still it is. He wants, more than anything, to pull him close and runs his hands everywhere, make sure that he is okay, that the cut on his forehead is the worst of his injuries, but instead he stays on his side of the couch.

Steve is beginning to drift, seeing what's in front of him and mind finally going quiet.

"The market," Loki says. He's looking away, hands clenched tightly. Steve just nods. The 57th street market, the one so close to where Doom started, and where Loki prefers to wander for lunch when he's between things and alone. Loki starts to shake, tiny shivers and spasms.

"I did what I had to do." His voice is trembling and Steve resists the urge to say 'really?'. "I didn't want to rule. I never did. But I had to. And maybe I enjoyed, some, seeing everyone hurt and afraid like I was. _Did_ enjoy it. But I _had_ to do it, had to make you _believe_ my goal. If I hadn't, Asgard would have been… _they _would have destroyed _everything_…" He stumbles to a stop, closing his eyes, shaking uncontrollably, hands tight fists, head bowed. "_I am not like him_."

Steve's stomach is tight and he doesn't want to deal with this, not right now, but seeing Loki(Luke) like this, seeing him only moments from snapping, he pushes aside his tired, and reaches out. Pulls Loki to him, pulls him despite the slight resistance and snarl into his lap, so Loki is facing him. He pulls Loki's head close, rests their foreheads together, rests his other hand on Loki's hip, and then closes his eyes. With him so close, he can _feel_ the tremours, as if Loki is outside in sub-zero temperatures.

"Tell me," Steve says gently, opening his eyes to meet Loki's.

Loki does.

Halfway through, tears begin to spill down Loki's face, hot and wet, voice cracking. Steve gently brushes them away but stays quiet. He lets his eyes close at some point, so that all there is is Loki's weight resting against him and Loki's voice, raw and broken edges, surrounding him. If someone had said that hearing Loki's story would make him hurt, he might have considered it but not really believed it; but this, _this_ hurts. Seeing this once-god break apart in his lap, hearing his now-partner's voice full of so much pain and fear and desperation… it hurts more than most things Steve has dealt with. It hurts like when he found out that it had been seventy years and everything had changed, because in a way that is the pain Loki whispers to him, of having everything known _change_ in an instant—the same and yet not. They just were surrounded by different circumstances and different histories, and Steve cannot tell if he would not have acted as Loki did if he had been in those circumstances and that history.

When Loki finishes, he doesn't try to move from Steve's lap. He just sits there, forehead leaned against Steve's, breath still ragged, occasional tremble still running through his body. Steve finally reopens his eyes, notes that Loki's are closed. The violin-string tension has finally snapped, and other than the shivers Loki is nearly boneless, defeated.

"If you want me to leave, I will," Loki whispers, spasm of something dark across his face. Unspoken Steve hears _I am a monster_. Unspoken is _I understand why I don't deserve you._

Steve gently cups the side of Loki's face, fingertips just barely brushing against his hair. He watches as Loki bites back another sob, as his shoulders shake, waiting for Steve to tell him to go.

"Loki," he says softly.

"Steve."

"Look at me."

Loki opens his eyes slowly, and Steve's breath is stolen. They are shattered, broken glass, and it cuts him deeper than the words have. Gently, gently, he runs fingers through Loki's hair. Loki goes to close his eyes again and Steve gives the slightest head shake. Loki stops, but he's not meeting Steve's gaze anymore. Steve kisses him softly and swallows Loki's sob. He leans back, tilts Loki's chin.

"Look at me," he asks again.

Loki does.

"I want you to stay here."

Confusion and hope mix in those beautiful green eyes. Steve smiles at him, though he _knows_ it's bittersweet. He can't help it—seeing Loki like this makes it difficult to truly smile. So he kisses him, again, slow and easy, exploring Loki's mouth, pulling Loki into his arms like he has wanted to all evening. Loki is all pliable lines, melting into Steve's embrace. When they finally break apart, Loki rests his head against Steve's shoulder, and Steve places a soft kiss on his favourite curve, where neck and shoulder join. Finally, finally, he can let his hands wander, let them ghost over his lover's body, feel for and confirm that there are no (physical) wounds, nothing that needs seeing to, that Loki is _safe_ and _whole_.

"I love you," Steve whispers, resting the side of his face against Loki's head. He keeps his arms wrapped around Loki, feels a sudden flare of tension in him but ignores it. "Don't say anything. I just… I love you, Loki. Or Luke. Whatever you want me to call you. I couldn't help but think about it, today. I worried about you and that I hadn't told you. I've had that happen before and I don't ever want to have it happen again. And what you've done, well, there's a lot, and I'm not sure how I feel about some of your choices and we'll talk about it more, we have to, but that doesn't change the fact that I love you and I was terrified you were going to get hurt today." He rubs soft circles in the back of Loki's neck, until Loki is again pliable and relaxed.

"Loki is… nice," he says hesitantly. Steve smiles.

"Then I'll call you that, when we're alone."

Loki nods slightly.

Steve closes his eyes. They both need to shower, probably both need to eat, definitely both need to sleep, but for right now, it doesn't matter. For now, he only wants this.


	13. 12 - (Not) Nervous

Why, Fel, have you waited _a whole week_ to post this chapter?

Because I am freaking out. Okay? Okay. Yeah. Just gonna admit it right now. I'm freaking out. I have this entire internal reasoning behind the possibly get things thrown at me point in this chapter, so I'm gonna expound on that in an AN at the end even though I usually don't because I'm really nervous what the reactions will be.

So uh.

Yeah. Provided I don't get lynched, expect chapter 13 + epilogue sometime this week.

Oh. Also rating jump. Because sexy slashy stuff. Also smutty next chapter. So rating jump.

* * *

**Chapter 12**  
He stops dividing himself. He blames Steve, that he finds it so hard to continue to do so, but he is not sure if he really minds. It is… easier, being able to acknowledge what he once _was_, even if it is only to one person. One person that he…. cares about (and it might be love, but he cannot _say_ that (despite _saying_ all those other things that revealed far more than he wanted (and for that he blames the stress of that horrible day))). It is _strange_ (to have revealed all his horrible shards of self) to be so loved.

And, despite what he fears, things do not _change_.

Steve stills kisses him the same, still smiles at him, still huffs in irritation, still stubbornly refuses to admit when Loki is _right_, still acts as if Loki is not, in fact, a monster.

(and that makes it so _easy_ to let go of Luke, blend Luke back into the rest of himself)

XXXXXX

It is nearing the end of June.

Loki is debating what to do for Steve's birthday (July 4th, which he eventually realized he should find out because apparently 'dating' means knowing each other's birthdays), because he knows he should (because he _has_ to). This is difficult, not because he doesn't know what to get Steve (he is, if he says so, ever modest, expert at picking out gifts for people, things that they will like), but because there are _words_ he wants to say that he cannot (and there are definitely not any _physical_ items that say the words he can't).

He takes the idea from his birthday picnic, though instead of going _inland_ they will be going _outland_. Or coast land? It does not matter—they are going to the beach, to a lovely beach house that belongs to Lethe's family (which she has loaned him the keys to). He has exactly one recipe very nearly down, for a cold soup (and one would _think_ that means Loki does not burn it, but he _has_, _several_ times). Also no bake fudge (and that he _hasn't_ burned). And all of this suits, fits, all of this will, he know, please Steve (because Loki is excellent at picking out gifts), but it is still _not enough_.

He does not have a bracelet from a past life to give, nor would he (that would be _copying_ and Loki is better than that). Indeed, he has _nothing_ of his past life besides his memories, but he would not wish to give Steve any of that (this is his _new_ life with Steve, and he wants to give Steve something to indicate that (to indicate _love_, because he (still) cannot get the (oh so dangerous) words out). And rings hold a certain significance (this is universal), so that is out of the question, too. (But he _needs_ to show Steve what he cannot _say_.)

It is with some trepidation he decides he will simply give Steve _himself_.

After all, it is not like Steve will ever _know_ all those stories the Midgardians tell are not actually true (a horse? _Really_?), and he can (hopefully) lie well enough that Steve will _never_ know that this is a _first_ for him (wolves and snakes and half dead women? Honestly? He might be a monster but do they really think he would sire or birth such things?). There is _nothing_ to be nervous or fluttery (or even sickeningly gut-twistingly warm) about; no way he can be _mocked_ (as he was a prince, he is only twenty-three in mortal terms (even if that means centuries in Asgard, that changes _nothing_, because he was _basically_ twenty-three in Asgard once one translates between realms)), and it makes _perfect_ sense that he would never have taken anyone to bed (it's not as if anyone in Asgard was even worth his interests in the _first_ place (except _her_ long dead now and perhaps it's best that never went anywhere), not when he had Thor to chase after and try to keep from starting wars (some times more successfully than others)) so there is absolutely _no reason_ he should be quite as nervous as he is about this. Especially not when he is quite familiar with Steve's mouth and Steve's arms and it's not like they haven't 'made out' several times (honestly, any time they get bored of a movie), this is just a step further, _really_.

There is _nothing_ he can buy that will show to Steve the words that stick in his throat, so he can give Steve this (himself) and it will (hopefully)(it _will_, it has to, Loki is an expert at selecting gifts and what they say, it's a skill well-honed as the diplomatic brother) show Steve what he feels.

So, he tries, very hard, to push it to the back of his mind. He makes the soup ahead of time (and it is not burnt) and the fudge (also not burnt) and stashes them in the house before making the drive back (worried because he _hates_ driving (not because of anything else, _thank you_)). It's hardly noon and Steve had mentioned that he was going to be spending much of the day with his fellow teammates (which is also a source of anxiety, because he does not _know_ if he will be noticed or not, and if he _is_, he does not wish to expose their relationship (because Steve does not wish people to know his orientation); but he has to trust he won't be, because he did not rely on being a god or magic in order to be stealthy), eventually meant to end up at some hotel or another. Loki has decided _that_ is when he will (attempt to) sneak Steve away.

He has plenty of legitimate reasons to be nervous (and he is not nervous at _all_ about how he will show Steve the words stuck in his throat).

XXXXXX

Sneaking Steve away from the party at the hotel goes surprisingly well. He does not think anyone notices him, or them (for which he is grateful, because the _last_ thing he wants is the spider to see him). Steve is confused at his appearance, little shock there, but Loki twines their fingers together (once again amazed at how nicely their hands join, at how utterly _natural_ it feels)(and how _reassuring_, because his heart apparently did not get the notice that _there is nothing to be nervous about_), and they slip out. Loki is driving (though he _hates_ it, at least it lets him focus on something besides _soon_), as Steve does not know where Loki is taking him (surprise).

"You did this to me," Loki reminds him, though Steve is far less put out about being dragged away than Loki was that day.

Steve just smiles and steals a kiss (and does the man _want_ them to die, Loki is _trying to drive_). They keep their hands together (even though that is _dangerous_ and they _will _die, he wants _both hands_ on the wheel (but the comfort and feel of Steve's hands and callouses is enough to risk it)); Steve tells Loki about what he has done today, about the antics of the team, of how Tony hired a stripper for the birthday and Loki revels in the fond exasperation in Steve's voice, in the sound and shape of Steve's words, how it is all D-major notes this evening (and, betraying him, his mind _wonders_ if Steve will stay in D-major _later_ or if he might go to another key, wonders what the key of Steve's release is)(and there is _nothing_ to be nervous about, at all).

It takes nearly an hour to get to the beach house, and Loki's hands are (not) shaking as they eat the cold soup, he is (not) looking everywhere except Steve, and his heart does (not) stutter like a bird's when they take the fudge with them and walk down to where the ocean is rolling in, pants rolled up and sand slipping between their toes. He does (not) blush at the feel of Steve's fingers pausing on his lips when they feed each other fudge, does (not) get caught in Steve's blue gaze that is studying him as if there is nothing else in the universe that exists except for Loki (and that feeling, that look, nearly makes his knees give out, does more for the clenching (not) nervousness in his belly than anything he has told himself).

Steve smiles as if he knows what Loki is thinking.

"I love you," Steve tells him.

_I love you_, Loki whispers back in his head, but the words get caught on his tongue and his tongue gets caught in his mouth. So instead, he leans forward and kisses him.

(Usually, Steve kisses Loki.)

(Usually, Loki is the one who responds.)

And while he _knows_ this mouth and these lips, it only makes the half-part of lips in surprise stand out that much more. He presses himself close to Steve, closer, wraps his arms around Steve's neck and runs fingers through the hair at the nape of Steve's neck. Steve's mouth is warm, soft, wet, and Loki bites down softly on Steve's bottom lip, teases until Steve's mouth opens and he can explore with his tongue. He opens his eyes half-way and meets Steve's gaze (and his heart does (not) nearly stop); Steve's arms wrap around, pull him _closer_, and those (oh so familiar) hands press against his skin, along his spine, fingers (sinfully) pressing into that _spot_ in the curve of his spine that make his hips grind against Steve involuntarily, makes his back arch, and he can't help the undignified half-moan that escapes (if _this_ is being mortal, he never wishes to become a god _again_). He can feel Steve's smile on his lips, neither of them willing to pull away from kissing; he can feel Steve's own arousal, and even through the haze of heat and lust pooling in his belly there is a thread of bright, cold _fear_ about pushing this further.

(Usually, this is where they stop.)

He breaks the kiss, panting, licks his lips. He smooths the wrinkles he has put in Steve's shirt, then pries himself away from Steve gently, takes his hand. Walking backwards, he tugs insistently.

"Come on," and his voice does (not) rasp, does (not) crack, his face does (not) flush, "there's much too much sand out here."

* * *

A.N. - So there we go. Poetry!Loki is a virgin. I did try to convey that this is not in any way unbelievable but I know someone is gonna get angry. I just know it. So. I just kept putting off posting because I was nervous.

Being the god of mischief does not equate to sex.

Being the god of lies does not equate to sex.

This Loki is established as younger-as I said in the story.

This Loki's sexuality is some flavour of demi-sexual-only interested in sex when there's an emotional bond already established. As for Steve's sexuality and stuff, I'll cover that next chapter. Because you guys are gonna throw stuff at me, I know it and I'm not sorry because this is my verse and I've thought long and hard about this choice and these characters. I didn't just pick this and throw it in for no reason, this is no less thoughtful than, say, me creating that language for _Slips Like Sighs_ and I don't want any of you to think that I did this because "lol, loki as a virgin!"

So if you don't like what I've done, there are lots of other lovely fics you can read, and I'm only sorry you came this far and that this detail, that I've put thought and history into, that I have fics planned around to explore Loki and Angrboda's relationship, that I have come up with explanations for his 'children', this is the one detail that turns you away.

I might be coming off as defensive, but... I've been freaking out about this. I want you all to enjoy. I really do. And I really think that I've made this work in this verse, but I'm not sure if you agree and I hate to turn people off or away.

But I'm not sorry because this is my verse and I'm really just inviting you in.


	14. 13: How This Works

Because my readers are the best readers, because of just the sheer warmth and support and reassurances I got last chapter, I'm giving you this one now. And the next, actually, so wait 5 minutes. Because, guys, you are really the best. I'm so glad I haven't pissed you all off. I might with Steve though, but to be fair, I've figured it's been about a year and I've figured he'd have explored the new body, and I've never taken him for bumbling and confused totally naive boy that some do. I mean, look how suave he's been this story.

Also because today is Tuesday. We began on a Tuesday, Tuesday is Steve's favourite day and Loki's least detested day. I'm all about the silly sweet gestures with this fic, obviously. (Yes, I've been planning to end this fic on a Tuesday, just like I planned my start falling on a Tuesday.)

Warnings: long. This chapter is so long.

Oh. And smut.

Smut. Warning.

Enjoy. :)

* * *

**Chapter 13**  
Steve had mentioned, several times, what was going on for his birthday to Loki, but Loki had smiled and nodded and seemed to think that it was all quite fine, that there was absolutely no need for Loki to be involved at all. Steve keeps his disappointment to himself; after all, Loki was once a god, and clearly doesn't put much stock in birthdays the way the rest of them do, at least not if how Loki had not had any plans for his own birthday was anything to go by. _If_ Loki had asked, he would find a reason or way to avoid the rest and do what he actually wants to, which is spend the day with Loki.

Loki does not ask.

Loki does not say anything about it.

That hurts a bit and it's the first time Steve has really been bothered by something about Loki (that does not involve Loki's first trip to Earth). And if it's the only thing, well, maybe he should count himself lucky.

XXXXXX

The celebrations are not, by any means, bad. And if he flushes and seems less than interested by the stripper that Tony hired, well, the others are probably putting it down to him being from the forties and not because he has very little interest in the opposite sex. Steve isn't stupid—he knows they think him a blushing virgin, but it is a good enough cover for what he actually is since he doesn't want them knowing he's of a different persuasion, and quite actively of a different persuasion.

So if pretending to be a virgin lets him continue in peace, he'll do it.

At least the beer is good.

"Do you have somewhere you'd rather be?"

Steve doesn't jump despite not having heard Natasha show up; he's gotten used to how she almost _appears_ places.

"This is as good a place as any to be," he tells her and takes another swallow of his beer. It's good beer; he doesn't know who picked it out, but it has notes of raspberry in it and isn't particularly heavy on the hops.

"I suppose, if you didn't have any other plans." She crosses her arms and leans against the bar next to him. He is watching Tony and Bruce arguing rather heatedly over something, words with sixteen and seventeen syllables involved.

"I didn't have any other plans," he admits.

"But you were wishing you did. Are they nice?"

He looks over at her, raises an eyebrow. He doesn't miss that she doesn't use 'she'—and if anyone was going to figure it out first, it would be Natasha. She glances over at him and gives him a flick of a reassuring smile.

"You've been absent a bit more often than usual from weekly meetings. And I'm not going to tell anyone, unless you don't cheer up. In which case I'll send Clint to jump on your bed again."

"I don't live in the Tower."

"Exactly," and she smiles like a snake. Steve can't help but chuckle a bit at that.

"They are. Just not big on birthdays, I guess." She is not watching Tony and Bruce; her eyes are following someone in the crowd of people in the rented out ballroom. When Steve looks, he can't quite spot who she is watching.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

Steve blinks at her as she leaves, then there's a hand that he knows sliding into his, familiar fingers twining and Loki is tugging, a wicked smile on his lips.

"Let's go," Loki whispers in the shell of his ear, breath cool and sending a shiver down his spine. "You did this to me," he adds, as if he needs to remind Steve.

(Steve puts aside the thought that Natasha has seen Loki, because Natasha has said nothing to anyone and has promised she won't if he cheers up. It's so easy to cheer up with Loki here, who he had thought (traitorously) would do nothing for this day, whose eyes are glittering with anticipation and cheer and something anxious, so Natasha will not tell anyone since he is unable to stop his smile or the confirming squeeze of Loki's hand that, yes, Loki is _here_ on his birthday.)

Steve glances back at the rest, sees Natasha who gives a smile and a shoo motion while the rest of the team is oblivious, then looks at Loki, whose tugging gently on his hand, pulling him along, and watches the particular line of Loki's spine as he navigates through the crowd.

Steve has always preferred lines to curves.

XXXXXX

Steve is a very patient boyfriend, and he is willing to admit that might actually be part of having grown up in the forties. Sometimes, he occasionally thinks he should be named a saint or that the team is right that he's too good—usually this is after he and Loki end up twined together on the couch and the only thing he can really think is how much he wants Loki and all the ways that he wants him, usually with Loki's lips a bruised red and glistening while Loki's eyes are half-lidded and glittering, Loki's black hair mussed and like spilled ink, a slowly blooming bruise on the perfect line of Loki's neck, and the oh-so-maddening feel of only some pants between them. Because instead of getting angry or feeling resentful (though he will admit he certainly does feel mournful and does not _want_ to), he backs off.

Loki, he realizes, does not actually want to go further than those rather intense sessions of kisses and exploring hands and utterly maddening teasing.

And it's not that Loki has _said_ that; he doesn't have to. There's very little either of them really have to say, which is perhaps one of Steve's favourite things about Loki. But it's in his eyes, this faint flicker of something uncertain whenever Steve's hands move to certain places (his pants zipper generally one of them). Steve knows he could ask and Loki would likely say 'yes,' but Steve does not want a compromised yes. He doesn't want Loki to say yes because Steve wants him to (though Steve does want Loki to say 'yes' and desperately so, especially when they are a tangled mess on the couch, movie forgotten). He wants Loki to ask, either explicitly or in his sideways way, to go farther.

It is like when something upsets Loki; Steve figures that when Loki actually wants to go past lips and exploring hands into actual sex, he will say as much to Steve or indicate it (not that Steve won't ask just to make sure if Loki tries to slip by with nonverbal, because this is, he senses, much too important an issue to Loki to let slide without a definitive and resounding 'yes, Steve, I want you inside me.' Or 'I want inside you.' Steve is willing to forgo being picky for Loki.)

Steve doesn't _need_ sex to be happy with someone and he's perfectly okay with waiting as long as he has to. He just has to have a stern mental talking to himself occasionally, that's all, and if he's perhaps been a bit more attentive to himself in the shower, well, Loki is more than worth the cost of longer showers if it gives Steve the means to resist pressuring Loki into anything he doesn't fully, totally, one hundred percent want.

He has long since figured he will be waiting a while and is okay with that.

So when they end up tangled on the floor of the beach house Loki has spirited him off to, the (admittedly small) part of his mind that gets to keep functioning is already looking for and calculating when to pull back, even as his hands undo the buttons down the front of Loki's shirt and he kisses and drags his teeth along the line of Loki's breastbone, Loki's fingers gripping his hair and Loki making these tiny little noises that are driving Steve absolutely insane. He is already watching for the hesitation that lets him know to back off as Loki's back arches up off the floor and he slides one hand along his spine, gently digs in with his fingertips and _drags_ on the spot that makes Loki shiver and claw at Steve's shoulders, as he bites gently before pressing kisses to the delicate line of Loki's throat, as he twines his other hand in Loki's hair just enough that it hurts and Loki's hips grind up into his own. He sees that flicker as his fingers ghost along the inside of Loki's waistband while he gently presses one thigh against Loki's erection and smiles a bit, because he wants so _much_ to keep going, because nothing is quite like the feel of Loki's nails clawing down his arms.

But Steve stops, tries to get his breath back under control. Loki is biting his lip (maddening), then tugs Steve down into another kiss. It's hard _not_ to be surprised—twice tonight that Loki has done the initiating—but he makes himself pull back after a few minutes because he knows if he doesn't he's going to snap.

"Unless you want this to go further, I need a few minutes to collect myself," he says quietly, pulling away slightly, resting one hand on Loki's cheek. Loki chews his lower lip again (Steve's mind helpfully conjures the memory of Loki's teeth on his skin).

"Do you know what you're doing?" Loki blurts out suddenly and even though it's dark Steve can still see the sudden flush on Loki's face that has very little to do with passion. Steve blinks, eye brows rising. "I mean. This. Have you done this before? I. Don't answer that. Have you?"

"Yes," Steve says very slowly.

"I," Loki pauses, searches Steve's face, clearly casting about for the right words. Steve waits as patiently as he possibly can, because he does _not _want to put words in Loki's mouth. "I want to know. How this works. With you."

(The (admittedly small) part of his mind that is being responsible suddenly realizes why Loki's first kisses were so clumsy and why his hands so uncertain. It also points out, before the rest of Steve can destroy this moment by stating the obvious, that Loki is looking incredibly vulnerable and like he might contemplate murder if Steve makes too big a deal out of this revelation.)

Steve leans down and kisses him unhurriedly, suddenly overwhelmed with how much he loves Loki, how much he wants him; uses the kiss to very firmly ground himself, because Loki wants _this_ with _him_, and he wants to nothing more, in this moment, than to introduce Loki to every possible form of pleasure that he knows and then some, until Loki is little more than a wordless mess in his arms—and if he wants to do that he's going to need some _focus_.

He flicks his eyes open as he pulls back just slightly, meeting Loki's eyes.

"I want to show you," he whispers softly.

Loki pushes up to meet him in another kiss, his hands sliding over Steve's bared shoulders, nails digging in, teeth almost too hard as he bites Steve's bottom lip; Steve lets himself settle against Loki again, rolls his hips roughly against Loki's and swallows down the moan that escapes Loki's lips. His fingertips leave shivers in their wake as he trails down Loki's ribs and stomach to the front of his pants, sliding his thumb beneath the waistband and teasing the skin, tracing the bone of Loki's hip. He digs his other hand back in Loki's hair, tugs so that his throat is exposed again and trails kisses down. Loki is shuddering beneath him, muscles taut and quivering with need. He nibbles thoughtfully at Loki's ear lobe, lets his breath brush against the sensitive skin and revels in the feel of Loki's fingers digging into his scalp; deftly, he undoes the button on Loki's pants, slides the zipper down and runs his hand against Loki's erection on the way back up. Loki half-whines, hips bucking into the touch and Steve chuckles.

Loki has apparently been wanting this as much as Steve.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches how Loki's face flickers, listens to the breathy not quite moans. He pushes Loki's pants down, just enough to give him easier access, and keeps stroking Loki through the silk, keeping the rhythm just out of step enough that Loki can't find it, because the ragged needy groans when Loki tries to grind _up_ against Steve's hand when Steve is also stroking up hit a particular pitch that Steve wants to pull out of Loki over and over and over again. He thumbs the head of Loki's cock, feels how the boxers are growing damp with precum, and Loki swears and whines in the same breath, arching up, nails clawing at Steve's back and arms and ribs, fumbling with Steve's own pants.

Steve runs his thumb over the head again through the silk, leaning back so he can grab hold of Loki's wrists with his other hand and pin them to Loki's belly, all the while continuing to stroke Loki through the silk.

"_Steve_." Loki's pupils are blown wide in the dark, face flushed, and he wiggles, tries to press closer, tries to pull his wrists free. Steve lets him struggle but keeps hold of the wrists firmly, watching the shivers that run through Loki's shoulders. He stops stroking and bites a smile back at Loki's near sob while he undoes the button on the front of boxers. Just barely slides forefinger along the flesh of Loki's cock and Loki does sob then, sob and whine and struggle to press himself into Steve's hand. Steve just presses down more on Loki's wrists, pinning him a bit more firmly against the floor, before he pulls Loki's cock out and, using the precum as lube, begins to stroke again. He keeps pressing the pinned wrists harder into Loki's belly, uses one knee to pin open Loki's free leg, so Loki can't buck up into the movement, listens to the half-pleading noises Loki makes as he strokes, and watches Loki's face. Watches as Loki hits the back of his head against the floor, shoulders rising a little, as Loki bites down on his lip, watches as Loki teeters on the brink of letting go before twisting his hand just so. Every muscle strains against Steve pinning him down as Loki comes.

Steve drinks the sight in of Loki, stomach wet, face relaxed, and watches the rough rise and fall of Loki's chest.

He moves his knee, lets go of Loki's wrists, and feels the low buzz of pleasure in the back of his mind. Yes. Loki opens his eyes to look at Steve and electricity runs through his spine, seeing confusion and pleasure swirling together. His own erection is hard, his pants uncomfortable and too tight, but that's okay, it's what he _needs_ right now. Keeping the gaze unbroken, he places a hand on Loki's hip, leans down, licks along Loki's stomach where the cum is pooling, and can't help but grin at the way Loki's breath hitches. _Yes_.

He cleans Loki's stomach with his tongue, over the span of a few agonizing minutes, let's Loki use his hands to run through his hair or along his shoulders, gently removing them when Loki tries to tug him up, before he starts to work his way lower. Ghosts his breath over Loki's half-hard erection, presses a kiss with a smile against his lover's hip when Loki lets out an high-pitched yelp. Steve slides one hand between Loki's back and floor, lifting his hips up, aided when he brushes one finger against that sweet spot by Loki's spine and Loki shudders and tries to move up and away. Pants and boxers are slid down and off, tossed… somewhere, and Steve returns, exploring the insides of Loki's legs with his fingertips, tongue, and teeth, kissing and nipping and keeping his eyes on Loki.

He finds a spot, just next to the back of Loki's left knee, that makes Loki writhe on the floor, a hiss of sharp exhale and curse reaching Steve's ears. He smiles, wraps one arm around Loki's leg so he can't move it, and starts to devote his attention to that spot, mapping it and every centimeter of skin around it, until Loki is whining and begging and swearing in equal measure when his breath isn't caught and ragged in his throat. Steve stops when he sees Loki reach for himself, kisses a quick trail up the inside of Loki's thigh until he can reach and pull the hand away, twining their fingers together. Loki is half-sitting up, resting against his other arm, and Steve smiles at him as he watches the muscles tremble in that arm.

"No, love. Not tonight, as much as the thought of watching you take care of yourself appeals."

He nips at the flesh joining hip to thigh and Loki involuntarily twitches.

"I want to take you apart myself."

He kisses along the inside of Loki's hip, not watching Loki though Loki is watching him, Loki crushing his hand.

"Have wanted to."

He ghosts breath against Loki's cock, licks a trickle of remaining cum off with the tip of his tongue, glancing up to watch how Loki's face breaks, how Loki's shields are cracking again, and feels a pulse of warm _want_ shoot through him, pushing Steve a little closer to coming undone. _Yes_.

"It's my birthday," he reminds Loki, then before Loki can respond, swallows him to the hilt. Loki's face shatters, a ragged half-scream tearing from his throat. Steve can feel the bones of his hand grinding together in Loki's grip, hums around Loki's cock and Loki's supporting arm gives out, head thudding against the floor. Loki kicks feebly with one leg and Steve swirls his tongue along the underside of Loki's cock, swallows, and Loki's hips buck, another cry tearing out. _Yes_.

He starts to move, sliding his tongue along and around Loki as he pulls back, always swallowing him whole when he moves down, excruciatingly slow, letting Loki buck into his mouth. Loki's free hand claws at the floor, then presses to his mouth; Steve watches as Loki bites into his palm to keep from screaming again as Steve hums around his cock. Steve works slowly, steadily, despite any of Loki's twitching or begging to go faster, _faster please Steve more_, Loki trying to leverage himself with the leg not blocked by their entwined hands and Steve firmly pressing him back down, until _finally_ Loki hooks that leg over Steve's shoulder.

Steve pauses only long enough to slick his free hand in the dripping wet that is Loki's cock, Loki letting out a sob for even so short a break, before Steve's mouth is back in place, tongue swirling around the head.

He watches Loki gasp, waits until Loki bucks his hips up, then slides one finger deep inside at the same time as he takes Loki entirely back into his mouth again. Loki screams, muscles clenching tight, back arching up and free hand clawing at the floor beneath them. Steve would smile if he could, feeling a bit of precum dribble and dampen his own pants; instead he starts to work at Loki's ass while he sucks. Slips a second finger in after a few minutes, reaches, curls, and _drags_ along the spot he's looking for, until Loki is an incoherent mess of noise, twitching muscles, and bucking hips. _Yes yes yes_.

Loki comes the second time with his fingers digging deep into Steve's hand, yanking roughly on Steve's hair, back arched in the most perfect curve that Steve has ever seen, and Steve swallows down every last drop until the wire-tension of Loki's orgasm snaps, leaves him a near boneless sprawl on the floor. Steve pulls away, licks his lips, and watches the rise and fall of Loki's chest again, how Loki's eyelashes are fluttering against his cheekbones, and has no idea _how_ he's managed to get harder.

He's watching Loki, thinking about how he should probably get Loki into a bed and see himself a shower before he joins. He's close, thread-like close, and his mind keeps replaying the sound of Loki's orgasms back, the sight of Loki's body writhing, the feel of Loki's hands in his hair. As Steve starts to gather Loki up, Loki's eyes open, sliding over Steve and barely able to focus. He tangles his fingers in Steve's belt loops, gripping tightly (or as tightly as he can, which is not so tight that Steve couldn't remove them), leans against Steve half-drunk on adrenaline and post-orgasm euphoria.

"No."

Loki stops to lick his lips, clearly searching for more words, and Steve blinks at where Loki's resting his forehead against Steve's shoulder, surprised, surprised enough he doesn't notice one of Loki's hands let go of a belt loop and brush down, friction a sudden sharp line in Steve's mind as Loki's hand presses clumsily against Steve's own arousal.

"Loki, I can wait," he says, cupping Loki's face so Loki is looking at him, meeting his gaze, trying to show him that this is not the end of the world and instead nearly forgetting how to breathe. Loki's eyes are barely focused but swirling full of emotions, desire, lust, _love_.

"No," Loki murmurs again. "I _want_ this. _You_. Please, _Steve_, I _need_…." Loki trails off, breath shallow.

"I need more than spit and come," Steve manages to say.

"Bag." Loki vaguely waves towards a duffel bag that is sitting only a few yards away by the couch.

Steve gathers Loki into his arms despite any of Loki's half-murmured protests, grabs the bag, and then takes them both to the bedroom. He digs through; when he finally finds the bottle of lube and turns, Loki is half-curled on his side, dozing against a pillow, pale flesh nearly glowing against the dark sheets in the moonlight through the windows. Pressing a tender kiss against Loki's shoulder, Steve is tempted to let him sleep despite Loki's plea.

Except it wakes Loki, who rolls over and tugs Steve down into a kiss.

"Are you sure?" Steve asks when they break apart.

"_Need_," Loki repeats with a ragged whisper against Steve's lips, a mantra, eyes half opening and again Steve is overcome by the swirl of emotions in those depths. He had wanted Loki to break, to see more than glimpses of emotion, and if only he had _known_ the fire he would find (he had guessed but _this…_). Steve feels like a moth as he stares down, half remembers words of Icarus and the sun.

He gets his pants and boxers off, the sudden air making his skin feel far too tight, almost tighter than the press of jeans did, before he pulls Loki onto his back and settles between his legs once more. Loki's eyes shimmer with interest as he studies Steve. Steve is far more gentle now, trails fingers lightly over Loki's skin and watches the ripples of tension that follow and ease in their wake, like just barely touching the surface of a lake. Languid moans slip like sighs from Loki's lips, his head easing back against the pillows and eyes half-closing, hands twisting lightly in the sheets, cock twitching in interest as Steve runs his fingers along Loki's hips. Steve pauses a moment to coat his fingers with lube, then leans down to kiss those half-parted lips, pressing a finger inside of Loki. Loki gasps, cants his hips so Steve has easier access, and Steve wraps his free arm around Loki's waist, holding him, feeling tension building back up and how Loki is already trembling.

He strokes the spot on Loki's back in time to his finger thrusting inside of Loki, keeps pressing kisses to Loki's mouth, trailing them to his ear and throat, following them to his favourite curve where neck joins shoulder, then back to Loki's lips. Slowly, slowly, he adds a second finger, waits a moment for Loki's half-whine to fade, before he begins to thrust again, Loki's hips moving in time, Loki's back arching and their chests pressed close together. He can't stop watching Loki's face, how those eyes are so distant and raw, how they occasionally sharpen when Loki meets Steve's gaze and Steve feels like he might burn to death for the love and desire he sees there. _Yes_.

Steve adds a third finger and Loki's hips buck against his hand; a low ragged moan and something not English spills over his lips. Steve watches and listens as Loki keeps whispering and moaning, the words incomprehensible but their intent clear. Steve's cock is hard and heavy and he _wants_ Loki, badly, but Loki is still so tight against his fingers, still whining when Steve presses in, those long long legs splayed open. Loki is god-like like this, eyes glazed, foreign words on his tongue, skin moon touched, face utterly open.

"I love you," Steve tells him roughly, barely able to hold himself together.

Loki's eyes sharpen at the words, focus on Steve. His hands leave the bedsheets, wrap tightly around Steve's shoulders. One hand reaches for and grabs Steve's cock, slides along it, and he's left gasping, fumbling, Loki's eyes near _blazing_. Steve can hardly see anything except Loki's eyes, realizes distantly that he's _shaking_, muscles screaming for release.

"_Nú nú ég þarf að þóknast nú_, _ég þarf að sýna þér,_" Loki begs, hips rolling up against Steve, thumb slipping along the precum leaking from Steve's cock. Steve slips his fingers out of Loki, steadies himself on that hand for a few moments. Loki lets go of Steve's cock, wraps that hand back around Steve's neck, and Steve is nearly reduced to nothing as Loki _growls _deep in the back of his throat, slicked crease rubbing up against Steve. Steve slides his arm from behind Loki's back and grabs hold of his hip, positions himself, and presses in, finally, _finally_, _yes_.

Loki is slick and hot, _tight_; it takes everything in Steve to not jerk his hips forward and deeply as possible in one thrust. With his other arm, he rests on the bed, muscles shaking and straining, presses his forehead against Loki's collarbone. He eases himself in as slowly as he can, trying to gauge how fast to go by Loki's noises, but it's impossible, Loki's voice breaking over and over, hitting a pitch that drags along Steve's spine like fire and makes him want more, now, _faster yes_.

He lets go of Loki's hip and catches one of Loki's knees, spreading him wider, sinking the rest of the way in and vision swimming. He presses a kiss to the skin beneath his lips, holding himself still, Loki quivering and wordless for the moment. He rolls his hips and Loki's nails drag into his back, broken stuttering words spilling into the air again, and any remaining control to go slow and easy is utterly lost as Loki makes that _noise_ in the back his throat again as his teeth dig into Steve's shoulder. _Yes_.

He rides Loki into the bed, presses himself as close to his lover's skin as he can. At some point one of Loki's hand tangle in his and Steve grips it tightly, has to restrain himself before he crushes the fragile bones. It is rough and graceless; Steve shifts slightly at one point, brushes against Loki's prostate, and Loki cries out, voice hoarse and half gone. Steve does it again, again, feeling Loki clench tightly around him each time, listens to the wrecked sobs and foreign words against his neck. Feels Loki shudder into a dry orgasm, everything tight and fire, burning, his vision going white just before he hits release, _yes yes yes yesyes._

He collapses on top of Loki, muscles twitching beneath his skin. He's spent, as if he'd just spent all day chasing down a villain, but the bone deep warmth is so much more satisfying. It takes him a few minutes before he realizes he's probably crushing his lover, so he pulls out and away, rolls onto his side, and feels his heart nearly break when Loki opens his eyes with a half-cry on his lips, broken glass _loss_ in those eyes. He pulls Loki over to him, wraps him tightly in his arms, and manages to tug the rumpled blanket at the bottom of the bed up to drape over them lightly. Loki is boneless (entirely) in his arms, and Steve runs his fingers through the rat's nest that used to be Loki's hair, humming lightly, before he presses a kiss to Loki's forehead. Loki is watching him with half-open eyes; Steve keeps humming and has managed to mostly tame Loki's hair with his fingers by the time they slide shut, Loki's breath soft and even against his skin. Steve watches him for a little while, feeling his eyes get heavier by the second, but he resists the pull of sleep as long as he possibly can.

Eventually, Steve falls asleep, arms wrapped around Loki tightly, as if afraid when he wakes his lover will have vanished, fire behind those eyes burned out to ash.


	15. Epilogue

**Epilogue**  
Loki has never been so pleasantly sore in his life.

He has also never despised sunlight quite so much.

Usually, he would simply get up and shut the blinds before crawling back into bed, blaming himself for not closing them in the first place. He is, however, rather uncertain whether he can move, let alone _walk_ (nevermind it's a moot point, since he has no desire at all to leave where he is, Steve still sleeping, spooned against his back and arms wrapped tight around him). So instead, he glares daggers at the blinds for not closing themselves (though he secretly admires the view of the ocean rolling in) while he slowly, oh so slowly, mentally catalogs which of his body parts seem like they might be willing to move.

He has exactly two items on his list, depending on how he wants to classify things (his fingers are quite willing to twitch, as are his toes (but his thoughts are slow enough he isn't sure if he should count each finger and toe separately or not)), when he hears Steve's phone go off vaguely in the direction of the side of the bed Loki is not on.

If he still had access to his magic, the phone would not have made it past the first note.

As it is, he can only expend his every thought process towards wishing that it burst into flames.

Steve's breath alters, a huff blowing some of Loki's hair around his face (and (provided he does actually regain the will to move once more) he dreads seeing what it looks like), before the other man wakes, sudden and sharp and _there_ is the soldier that Loki so rarely sees (metaphorically speaking, as right now his neck has _not_ made the list of body parts that are willing to move). He feels the bed shift beneath him (slides slightly towards where Steve's weight presses the mattress down further), then Steve is out of bed and has grabbed the phone, that infernal noise silenced.

"Rogers."

Steve's voice is rough and sleep-filled despite how quickly he woke and moved, so Loki adds 'heart' to his list, because it just clenched quite tightly at the sound (though not unpleasantly). Whoever has called is clearly going on for quite some time, because Steve is not saying anything else, though he does make occasional noises to indicate he's still listening. 'Spine' is not added to the list, mostly because it really is more of initial momentum that makes it so Loki can sprawl onto his back and watch where Steve is standing, phone held to his ear, face flickering between annoyance and collected cool. (He wants, very much, for Steve to come back to bed, for that warmth pressed against his back once more, but instead keeps his face (or at least, he hopes so, his face muscles _certainly_ aren't on his list) relaxed and simply admires the view.) Steve's eyes meet his for a moment before a small grin quirks his lips. Loki cannot help smiling back (so 'lips' _are_ on the list, but not the rest of his face). Steve rejoins Loki on the bed, leaned partially against the headboard.

Quite willing to move when Steve pats the spot between his legs, Loki forgets about his list and half-slides-half-crawls (he will vehemently deny anything of the sort) with Steve's help, before he finally can stop moving again and just lay resting against Steve. Steve pulls the blankets up around Loki's shoulders, then rests his hand on Loki's neck, thumb stroking just behind his ear.

He watches Steve through his lashes, listening to Steve's heartbeat beneath his ear. It is comforting, strong, and Loki realizes that he has, perhaps (definitely), found _home_ in Steve's arms. He eyes the phone and contemplates whether he wants to grab it away, silence whoever is keeping Steve's attention divided, causing those flashes of annoyance. Steve meets his gaze, frowns at him, and mouths 'don't.' Loki smirks a little.

He decides not to. It would be too much effort (a reasonable enough excuse).

"Barton," Steve says firmly, and the vague noise of the other person stops. "As much as I want to keep hearing you complain that I left my own birthday party, I have plans." He smiles at Loki and again Loki instinctively smiles back.

"Thank you, Barton. I'll talk to you later. Yes, I'll come to the post-party party. Right. Bye, Barton." Steve hangs the phone up and leans his head back. The morning sunlight is entrancing on his skin, causing all sorts of interesting shadows to form on his neck, and Loki could (wants to) watch how those shadows change all day.

"I love you," Loki tells him, surprised at himself, at how _easily_ the words come now.

Steve smiles as he looks down at Loki, warm as the sunlight staining his skin gold and making his tousled hair glow (Loki thinks he might, perhaps, be melting, as his chest and stomach are both suddenly coiling with white warmth). Steve tosses the phone aside and runs his fingertips along Loki's face.

"I know," Steve tells him. "You told me."

He pulls Loki up closer and they kiss, unhurried, before Loki settles against his chest again, finding the (perfect)(favourite) spot in the curve of Steve's shoulder and neck to rest his head. Steve wraps one arm around Loki's waist and rests the side of his face against Loki's head.

Loki cannot hear Steve's heart lying here, but he can feel it—rests one hand over it and closes his eyes. Moments later, Steve's fingers lace in his, and they lay in bed, sound of the ocean and their breathing surrounding them.

* * *

**A/N**: Ugh. Let's rewrite this because I hit the back button my mouse. Good job Fel.

Anyway. That's an end, though not the end. You are welcome to stop here and imagine whatever you will about where these two go.

But I do have lots planned. I have so many feelings about these two, and I'm organizing together several short fics that I've written into a single large fic named "Interludes"-just tiny scenes and struggles and fluff and not fluff of how these two work, what they have to go through, to get them somewhere healthy and strong and just sweet. There's so much work to do.

If there's something you want to see, leave a comment. I've got a list in the notebook I write these Steve/Loki stories in (yes. I handwrite all my Steve/Loki fics. It seems fitting and I also find they come easier), and it's long but I'm always willing to add to it. We've got family and Steve talking to the team, Natasha and Loki, Thor, mortality, health and flowers and learning to simply ask and learning to simply listen. And more besides. Oodles. And. Oodles. But these things need context, so if there's an issue you want or a scene (baking, for instance, was mentioned to me as a prompt, so we'll definitely have something with Loki attempting to bake (what you thought he'd learn to cook?)), leave a comment. Or PM me. Really. If it works, I'll add it (though, to be honest, if it does not, I am truly sorry; I won't compromise what I'm doing or where we are going for a scene or setting if it doesn't work).

Because I do have a place I'd like to go.

Finally, thank you. All of you. Really and truly. The sheer response and comments and feedback I've gotten for this story, the support for the decisions I've made, it's been incredibly touching, invigorating, and it makes me so grateful for every last one of you. I really just wanted to share stories about my favourite pair and how I think they work, really really wanted to tell people this is how they fell in love; I didn't expect anyone to read this. Well, one or two of you, because some of you read all my work, but more than that.

I'm rambling and being sappy. So.

Thank you.


	16. Author Notes (because I can't shut up)

So I'm having some Poetry Verse feels and thought to share with you guys since I'm still working on setting up Interludes. Feel free to ignore, but I just. I guess I just want to talk a little about why I'm so desperately in love with Loki/Steve, which I will admit comes off as far too sweet, saccharine, and fluffy; pretty much the opposite of FrostIron (or what I like about FrostIron, which is _break and burn and shatter_). But really, my FrostCap is flavoured by the fact I do not believe that happiness is uncomplicated-actively hate that view.

So, at the core, I want complicated happiness. I want happiness that is work. Lilo and Stitch is such a good example of that-"little and broken, but good. Yeah, good." That family fights, sometimes they hate each other, but they love each other and it's good even as you ache for their misunderstandings.

And that will be exemplified as I keep writing more stories in Poetry Verse. Steve and Loki are _not_ healthy or good by the end of Quiet Poetry. Yes, they've fallen in love, but they are both just totally not at a position where they work. Steve thinks he understands Loki, thinks he doesn't need to ask, thinks that he knows what is best for, well, everyone. He's so used to being told he's right, he's good, he's best-I mean, that's why they picked him, because he is fundamentally a good person, and that's why he became what he is. But there's no division-Steve is right because Captain America is, and Steve knows best because the Captain does. And on the other side of that relationship is Loki.

It comes across a little in Quiet Poetry, but Poetry!Loki is interpreted as very young for a god. Time is relative, so to him it really has only been about 23-24 years. Sure, a lot has happened-but look back at the last few years of your life and tell me that you didn't have a ton of events go down. So he comes off closer to, I think, that young Loki we see glimpses of in Thor-the childlike fear when they first step out to Jotunheim, the questioning broken of the treasure vault. Anyway. So Loki, here then, is still basically having to sort himself out again. He's having to figure out who and what he is-even if he is mortal in Poetry Verse now it doesn't change that at his core he knows he was once Jotun-and he was hardly emotionally stable during the Avengers. He's _used_ to being the second prince. Used to his opinions not being heard unless he veils his wants and manipulates, used to hiding what he wants, used to not speaking his mind. This does _not_ make him innocent; sympathetic, yes. But Loki bottles up slight-perceived and real-and when he's depressed he gets angry. He doesn't mope; his depression is violent, destructive (himself and others), and all consuming despite anything he might say to the contrary. He lies to himself and others, twists, and manipulates. He's a manipulative little shit, as much as I love him.

Plus we have this horribly unhealthy dynamic of Loki being in a position of fear/powerlessness because Steve has SHIELD at his beck-and we know Steve would never ever ever call SHIELD in on Loki if he doesn't like something Loki does (unless it involves matters of public safety), but _Loki_ doesn't. So Loki has even _less_ reason to want to protest, because what if...?

Steve presumes, by end of Quiet Poetry, that he gets Loki, that Loki really _isn't_ bothered by a lot of things that he does. That Loki will say something when he is bothered.

Not likely.

But, see, look at that. Look at all those _problems_ that are just beneath the surface; problems I've left hints and trail of in Quiet Poetry. That's what Interludes is _about_. I love these cracks. I love how they are both so stubborn and I want to slap them both and say "Just fucking TALK TO EACH OTHER GODS."

That's good.

And for all the eventual sweetness of Poetry Verse, they will never _be_ perfect. Ever. It will never be uncomplicated. They will always fight (and boy, guys, I know you haven't seen it yet, but when they fight it is _vicious_), they will always run into misunderstandings of culture and thought process and emotion, and sometimes it will be unhealthy, yeah. Because that's how relationships work. But they fell in love and learn, over and over again, how to _stay_ in love, _why_ they love the other. Even with the problems. This ship, this story, this headcanon-it's not about _fixing_ anyone. I hate when people try to force Loki into the very molds that he defies. He's not broken in the first place-he needs to learn better ways to cope than break everything, yes, and he needs a little help, sure. He needs to start to think outside of himself, instead of just in terms of wrongs done to him. And I'm not going to _fix_ Steve, either. No, this is about _learning_, learning how to cope, how to talk, how to trust oneself, how to be _more_ of oneself. Loki is going to do that, and so is Steve-they become _more_, more certain of their own footing, of their own way, of _being_ better and not just being _told_ they are better. Loki will never stop violent anger-but he'll learn how to handle it. Steve will never stop thinking he knows what's best-but he'll notice when he does it. They are _stronger_ in their imperfections. And they do this together. They don't fix each other-they _help_ each other. Where Loki falters, Steve helps carry him. Where Steve is too open, Loki defends him. Just this fierce _protectiveness_ of each other, of acknowledging the other's faults, of loving each other despite and _in spite_ of difference, argument, fear, and anger. They ground each other-sometimes Steve Loki and sometimes Loki Steve. They pull each other up and teach each other how to fly.

Hell, for that matter, they don't even _need_ each other necessarily. Steve is what gives Loki that push to try and cope, but Loki does not depend on Steve's approval. Part of the push Steve gives him is learning to walk on his own, to be his own person, to learn what he actually wants and to see what he actually needs. And part of Loki's learning to do that will push back against Steve, make Steve see outside of his assumptions. They are shaped as much by each other as they people around them, and the best thing is by the time it's all said and done they don't need each other-but they _want_ each other.

As they are.

And they defend that want. Fiercely. There are moments, on both sides, where both cultures clash. There are moments where people in Loki's family ask Steve how he can stand certain things Loki does that are frowned on in Asgard and Steve just shrugs and says that's who Loki is, why would he want to change that? And there are times people ask Loki why he doesn't try to stop Steve doing certain things-and it's just as alien to him. Yes, maybe they don't like certain things about the other, but they _accept_ that and move on, because without those things it wouldn't be the person they love.

And of course, how can I mention want and not mention how just amazingly _sensual_ these two are? I can't. They are so incredibly sensual; and yes, Loki is demi-sexual in this verse, but grey-sexuality does not void sensuality. I'm some variation of asexual myself, and I can find things incredibly sensual, all the time. So Loki is just incredibly sensual in his perceptions; Steve is very quietly sensual, too. They both are. Steve isn't virginal, I've established that. And because of the sheer amount of emotion between them-whether they are angry or happy or anything in-between-it bleeds over into their sex, in their touches, in their looks. They're constantly touching each other, for comfort, to assure themselves the other is there, to simply _touch_; holding hands, quick kisses, brushes of shoulder to shoulder. And there are going to be some hilarious smut scenes, where we see just how they are different in bed, but in general even when they're fumbling they're still just, well, full of love and desire and want for the other. Steve loves surprises and new things; Loki loves to _learn_-and this exploration and learning and love means they are constantly experimenting and trying new things and just drowning in the simple touch of each other in bed.

When poetry verse is drawing to a close, we're going to see me talk about Sonnets of the Portuguese again; the thing is, I find this set of poems so indicative of the strength of bond between them. The... probably last story in Poetry Verse is going to be titled "Sonnets of the Portuguese," and throughout it will be lines from the most famous, Sonnet XLIII:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.  
I love thee to the level of everyday's  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;  
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.  
I love thee with a passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death.

Because this just seems so indicative of the journey they've come through and just _where_ their love is at as the series closes. Because "I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; / I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise." is so purely the way Steve would speak of loving Loki; because "I love thee with a passion put to use / In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith." is how Loki would describe his love of Steve. Because _both_ would say "I love thee with a love I seemed to lose / With my lost saints, " - Steve because he woke in a place with the world entirely different, all his old friends gone; Loki because he had his entire world shifted and changed, first with learning of being Jotun, and again with the punishment Asgard gave him. Because "I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach," is so purely _them_ I ache.

And you see this, in how I write them. _This_ is why Poetry Verse-first Quiet Poetry, and everything after-is so very very lyrical. Why everything has this natural, well, poetic feel to it. Because when it started it was a poem (literally, the outline of scenes was a poem), because as it grew I let it shape itself in that way, because I allow their love to become these beautiful sonnets.

So, Steve and Loki, Loki and Steve, well, I'm not looking for perfect. I'm not looking for right, and Poetry Verse is not about that so much as it is about _love_. Actual, healthy, and stable love.


End file.
